


Fickle Games

by Metal_mako_dragon



Series: War and Peace [2]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Alastair hates being king, Better to have loved and lost, Character Death, Civil War, Conspiracy, Cousland holds grudges, Cousland likes to lie to himself, Duty before love, Fergus Cousland is a stubborn fool, Hidden Relationship, M/M, Magic in the family, The problem with Darkspawn, Tragedy, Wardens as family, revenge will be sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-21
Updated: 2013-07-21
Packaged: 2017-12-20 23:02:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 33,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/892927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Metal_mako_dragon/pseuds/Metal_mako_dragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"My first thought was, he lied in every word"</p><p>Lien Cousland and Alistair Theirin caught between forces far greater than their own love. Everything has its ending.</p><p>Runs in the same timeline as 'A Life Less Ordinary', taking place between chapters 47 and 51.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. He Who Dares

**Author's Note:**

> I know this is a deviation from the normal characters but please read this part as it is integral to the story as a whole.
> 
> This story is meant to take place parallel to about a few weeks after Anders, Hawke and Callum have left Val Chevin and are still travelling north.
> 
> So really it's just a parallel tale from Cousland's point of view about what is happening in Ferelden during the time Anders is journeying towards the Anderfels (thus it is technically in the past, if we're being literal).
> 
> The note that Cousland receives from Wynne is the note which Anders gave to her in Val Chevin and the plot deals with Ferelden's impending 'marriage' to Orlais through the royal bloodlines (as mentioned in the conversation in the chapter 'Respect' from 'A Life Less Ordinary')

The storm drew over them early on, in the pitch dark of the winter morning. The lightning flash awoke him first, blearily from his deep dream, but the thunder sat him bolt upright, blinking into the dancing residual darkness left behind by the bright instantaneous light. It took a moments blinking and rubbing at his eyes to understand why the noise had not stopped, even after the thunder had trundled away through the clouds. He looked around but could not see the barking dog.

"Shadow!" Lien hissed authoritatively, "Here girl, quiet! Come on!"

He patted the bed and the whining growls which the mabari had been making stopped altogether. There was a muffled sound of paws on stone, of a long tongue lapping at panting jaws, and then the bed shook as the large dog jumped up onto the mattress.

"Lie down you silly mutt," Lien sighed in annoyance, " _lie_ down! It's only bloody thunder."

The dog acquiesced after finding a suitable spot, namely curled up between her master's legs for warmth, and lay there in the dark with her ears perked. Lien only noticed this when he finally worked up the mental wherewithal to light the candle by his bed. The dog didn't move but he saw her ears flicker back and forth. Silly dog, he thought affectionately, although I'll agree that it is strange. A storm at this time of year? It's still so cold.

He lay back down, letting the thick blankets swallow him once more, and tried to reclaim sleep. From the moment he closed his eyes he knew it was a wasted effort. Not, as one would think, because of the flickering candle, loud thunder, bright lightening and intense whimpering, growling barks from Shadow. The demons in his own mind were far more potent than that.

The bed felt empty and cold.

He threaded his arm beneath the blankets and reached out to the right, running his fingers over the frozen sheets, and wished he could feel the warmth there.

* * *

"Oi, you at the back there! Wake up!" he barked out with well honed fake anger; yet despite his falsity the recruit still snapped to attention faster than a tamer's whip, "Do you think the Darkspawn will care if you're tired or not? No! In fact I'm sure they'd prefer you that way; easy prey."

It was raining lightly, another thing that made this encounter all the more unpleasant. The suddenness of his waking that morning and the dark, unhelpful thoughts which had plagued him since then, lying staring into the flickering gloom, had left him extremely terse and disagreeable. The storm had gentled down into a bank of heavy grey clouds and drizling rain but Cousland found that the lack of dramatic thunder and lightening only served to reflect the dire and dull mood of the people before him.

He walked in front of the ragged line of young men and women, all new faces, some eager, some blank and some apathetic. They were nothing to write home about; a bunch of willing, or sometimes unwilling, new recruits from the scattered villages of the Bannorn. Not a soldier among them, Cousland thought with irrational spite fuelled by his black mood, peasants and farmer's children every one of them. It was as he passed the end of the line and turned back that he heard the whispered words.

"...be another Blight for a hundred years now, why should we..?"

He did not see red, he did not lose his temper, not as usual. Instead he saw an opportunity to vent his pent up anxiety.

"And if you're hoping that your services as a Warden will never be required in your lifetime," he said brusquely, keeping his eyes on the two whispering recruits, a teenager who looked barely old enough to be here and a girl with short, ginger hair, both looking terrified at being caught, "then I don't even know why the fuck you decided to show your pathetic faces here before me in the first place. Considering the things I've seen in the past few years I wouldn't be surprised if a hoard of Darkspawn rampaged over that ridge at any moment! So don't stand there, superior and cowardly, and whisper sweet reassurances to yourselves because no one knows what lies on tomorrow's horizon. If you don't want to take on the responsibilities that come with being a Grey Warden, one of the oldest and most honourable professions in all of Thedas, then pick up your things and get out of my Keep!"

Silence greeted him. Even the senior Wardens who had brought the new faces to him and now helped him to greet them, were giving him sidelong glances. Hannir, an older member of the caste, his dark hair heavily streaked with grey and his face heavily lined, was watching him carefully. The other, Andrew, was nearly a decade older than himself; usually a fiery, passionate man by nature, even he frowned a little at Cousland's out of turn behaviour. They both moved on their feet uncertainly, their hands resting gently on the pommels of their swords as they usually did, to look intimidating to the new ones. Of course to the recruits Cousland was sure that his men looked entirely unconcerned but, after working with and living with them for over five years, Cousland knew what to look for.

No one had moved from the line when he finally took notice of it again. Good, he thought bitterly, wonderful. I was hoping the cowardly little shits would be too ashamed to show their pissed pants in public and have left already. I would be so fucking lucky.

"Right then," he said at a more reasonable level but still with the authoritative lilt to his tone, "then if you're done gossiping for the day, perhaps we should see to getting you initiated properly. Girls, go with Andrew here, he will show you to the women's barracks, boys you go with Hannir. Get your things stowed away and then make your way back here so we can get started finding out everything that you _don't_ know about combat, so we can start teaching you what you _need_ to know."

They continued to stare at him, some with awe, some with resentment and some with that same blank look still stuck to their faces. Maker I hate my fucking job, Cousland thought harshly.

"Are you all deaf?" he barked, "Get going already. It's fucking wet out here!"

Yet the wetness was not what angered him, not what made him so touchy. He stood out in the mist like rain for ten minutes after watching the scrabbling bunch rushing after the two senior Wardens, looking around the Keep like bright eyed children. Even those who had seemed sullen or dispossessed still seemed to find something to be amazed at in staring at the strange, warlike architecture of Vigil's Keep. Or perhaps it was simply all of the stories they had heard about it. All the stories they had more than likely heard about him.

Cousland stared down at the mud building at his feet. The rain patted with infinitesimal softness against his forearms and the back of his neck.

I wish I could just eat my dinner in my bloody room alone tonight, he thought with a sigh, finally lifting his face up towards the grey, overcast sky and letting the moisture gather on his cheeks and brow. Sitting at the head of the table of recruits and elder Wardens, rallying them, talking to them, buoying them up...

...it wasn't something easy to do when you felt as if all your energy had simply drained away and was now impossible to refill.

* * *

Dinner had been neither akin to torture nor the pleasance of a chair by the fire. Keeping up appearances worked well on those who did not know him; they were easily fooled by his sharp smile, his witty tales and his bright laugh. His performance chased away the looming spectre of his first impression on them, of the dark, angry, war torn general they had all been told tales of. Instead they all left the table well fed and in far better spirits, despite how he had greeted them and how harshly he had judged their combat abilities.

Some of them had never even held a dagger before, never mind a sword or a bow. Finding their strengths was a useless strategy as many had none whatsoever. Blank slates, however, were sometimes easier to work with. They would do what you told them because they knew no better. No, what he disliked more than someone with no knowledge of weaponry was someone with vague knowledge of how to swing a sword or wield a spear. Those idiots thought they knew it all.

Some tried to act superior to their less knowledgeable comrades, some tried to impress them with their skills. He beat that out of them rather quickly, either with words or, if need be, challenging them to a very short, very ruthless duel. He did not hurt them , not permanently, but fifteen seconds in the arena with the Commander of the Grey was enough to show them that they knew nothing of combat. Some days he found it easy to treat them with more care and gentleness. Today was not one of those days.

Still, everyone was happy now. They were ready, or as ready as they would ever be, to face the next weeks training exercises before the true initiation began; before the Joining commenced and they all bore witness to who would stay and who would run in the face of true horror.

The fire in his chambers was mainly blocked by the bulk of Shadow, lying before the blaze with her head neatly upon her paws, breathing deftly in and out as she slept. Not even his entering woke her. She had been with the hunting patrol all day, while he had handled the recruits, and, so he had been told, had brought in dozens of rabbits, pheasants, grouse and helped bring down a couple of dear before the darkness set in. She deserved her rest, Cousland thought as he fought his way out of his light and yet complicated armour, unlike myself.

He sat down heavily in the armchair, by his dog, and finally allowed the dark thoughts to rise from their isolated prison. What have I done that truly has a practical meaning such as hers? He thought dourly. What does this nameless war have to do with me? I kill and I fight and I keep others safe, all seems simple, and yet conversely I am forced to decide who lives or dies, who is saved and who is sacrificed, who is good and who is bad. What good am I in this, such grand plans? What good is some lost boy who, at the core of it all, can never truly let go of the family that was butchered or the brother who abandoned him?

I am not as I preach, Cousland thought as he stared into the flames and tried to will his muscles to relax, I am not detached and dispassionate. I am not a good leader except when I mimic what it takes to be a good leader. I am simply denying all of the blackness that makes up my being. I am nothing more than all that blood and gore that lined Highever's walls, no more than Fergus's blank stare. No more than the hideousness of war which I was exposed to so young, seeing those I barely knew slaughtered around me, seeing the darkest side of our own humanity rising up against us to devour the world itself.

In an oddly strange bout of lonely nostalgia he wished that he hadn't sent Nathaniel and his troops away to the North to investigate at the First Warden's demand. Howe would never have let him carry on like this. He would never have allowed him to fall further and further into such a black, brooding mood. In a way Cousland was already irritated enough that he had allowed _himself_ to fall so far. He knew why, he knew what it was based in, but it was also something he was too deep in to easily pull himself out.

Cousland lifted his rights side slightly from the chair and reached into the back pocket of his under trousers to pull out the crumpled, creamy parchment he had stuffed there days before. He looked at it for a moment, running his eyes over the disfigured wax seal and the oddly yellow colour the material took as it was lit behind by the fire. The light turned it almost transparent. Through the fine, pastel glow he could make out the rough, rounded script held inside, the words jumbling over each other like confused beetles. He tried to narrow his eyes at it, he tried to lift his other hand, take hold of it and tear it in two, he tried to shout at it, he tried to unearth that normal, usual inflammatory ire which had always afflicted his personality.

It would not come. Instead he simply ran his thumb over the parchment with a familiar and yet entirely subdued sense of affection, before leaning forwards and throwing it into the fire. For some reason Shadow opened her eyes and snapped her head up, sniffing the air and watching the blaze as it consumed the parchment swiftly and greedily. Lien did as she did. They sat there, together, and watched the twisted and yet still recognisable royal seal of Therin bubble and hiss until its red wax became nothing more than fuel for the flames.

* * *

"I haven't the time for visitors," Cousland said roughly to the young Warden who had been sent to deliver the message, "tell her I'm busy."

The young recruit, only three months within the Keep's walls, obviously wasn't used to the Commander's rather blunt and dismissive behaviour when it came to authority figures. Especially when the person addressing her was still dressed in inappropriate sleeping clothes. The young woman stared back at the Commander, who was wearing only a lose shirt and his sleeping trousers, rubbing at the dark circles below his eyes, and did not seem to know how to respond.

"But Commander...sir," she tagged on the end, "it's the Senior Enchanter, how should I turn her away?"

"You do know there isn't a Circle here anymore," Cousland said cynically, raising an eyebrow, "she isn't Senior Enchanter any longer."

"But sir she was very insistent..." the young Warden said purposefully.

They always insisted, Cousland thought in annoyance. Why did everyone always think they knew better than he did? What use was his station if he couldn't command any respect from his own troops and have them, at least the basest rank of them, obey his commands without question?

"Fine!" he snapped out, interrupting her, "Fine, tell the old witch I'll be downstairs in a fucking minute. Honestly, can't get a decent lie in without someone turning up to..."

The rest of his rant was lost on the young Warden who received, wide eyed as she was, a door slammed in her face for her troubles. Cousland took two steps into the darkly lit bedroom before stopping. He surveyed the mess; the ruffled bed, his strewn clothes and his armour which he had neither cleaned nor put away with any respect, the papers he had taken out in a rage and thrown all over the floor while he drank from the, now empty, bottle of whiskey lying down beside the fireplace. Shadow was already awake, sniffing at the displaced items and wagging her stumpy tail when Lien trailed over to her side and reached down to scratch between her ears.

"I really am a fucking mess," he muttered bleakly, "Aren't I girl?"

The whine he received in reply was not reassuring. He dressed quickly and, even he would admit it, a little sloppily. He pulled on his Commander's cloak to hide his rushed appearance, even though it seemed a little arbitrary considering it was looking to be the start of a sunny day outside. The bright sunshine, which he found directly in his sensitive eyes when he pulled back the curtains, blazed down from a clear and blue sky. Wonderful, Cousland thought, just wonderful.

He found her waiting for him in the courtyard, holding herself as she always had, with dignity and poise while one of the young recruits, whom he remembered as being called William, brushed down her horse with the harsh and yet practiced strokes of a well versed groom. In fact he was sure that was what the boy had been before coming here. The only way he knew it was the Senior Enchanter's horse was because he didn't keep any white horses in his stable. Ferelden horses were naturally black, brown or a mix of the two; the only horses in his stable with any white were a few patchy Clydesdales which were used for hauling the equipment wagons. Her horse was a rather magnificent beast, by aristocratic standards; pure white and elegant, daintily poised on long, slim legs, giving it an exotic Antivan grace. Cousland did not approve. Give him a sturdy Ferelden cob between his thighs any day.

"So," he said as he wound his way out onto the muddy ground from the hard stone, "what brings you here? And so early, I might add?"

"Well, it looks like I should feel some sort of remorse for being so early," Wynne smiled benevolently as she eyed him closely, "you look as if you've had a long night Commander."

"Don't call me that," Cousland said gruffly, coughing out a rough something in his throat, "you know I hate it when you all call me that."

"Cousland then," she shrugged, her smile turning too mischievous not to give away her prior knowledge of his dislike, "Actually I was just dropping by on my way to West Hill, to continue with the relocation of the mages there."

"Horse shit," Cousland said coarsely, even as he gestured with his hand to invite her inside; she followed him demurely, seemingly used to his rough language even as she tutted at him for his conduct, "I know you were in Cumberland for the Circle meeting, don't give me any crap about stopping here 'on the way'. You could have taken a boat straight to West Hill, or even Highever if you wanted to get a little closer."

They passed through the narrow corridors of close stone, Cousland saluting the guards who snapped to attention in their patrols when they saw him. He could hear the sound of the new recruits in the training ground in the east wing of the Keep as they passed on their way to his quarters. Thalmur, the bladesman, a harsh instructor, could be heard roaring at them soundly. Cousland looked to Wynne while they walked; she seemed to be keeping her reply to herself until they were probably alone. He noticed her smile at the sound of the, mainly obscene, shouting. Ah you wouldn't be smiling if you were his target, Cousland thought wryly, the man scares the piss out of _me_ most of the time _._

They arrived at his quarters and he led her to the small sitting room that was situated adjacent to his bedroom. He had let Shadow out for a walk around the Keep, enough to keep the dog entertained, and she knew well enough not to get into trouble or get herself lost. Without her, however, the room seemed somehow empty and even more slovenly. Wynne noticed the mess the room was in, hastily and not very well cleaned before he had come down to collect Wynne, through the open door to his bedroom. Cousland walked over and decisively shut the door to the room before she could comment. He offered her wine or mead but she refused it; she accepted the water.

"So," he said with a sigh once they were both seated at the small table, situated by the rounded window on the far wall, "why are you here?"

"I was charged with delivering this to you," Wynne said as she reached into her robes, beneath her outer travelling cloak, into a small concealed bag; there was something about a mages' clothing which Cousland had always found fascinating, the way they stored so many potions, herbs and remedies in what seemed nothing more than a long dress. I suppose they have become accustomed to hiding what they own, he thought dryly.

What she handed to him sent an irrational and yet perhaps fitting jolt of anger and pain through his mind. The letter was written on parchment, yellow and thick, and was sealed with familiar red wax. His reaction was so instinctual, in fact, that the words he spoke were out of his mouth before he thought about the ramifications.

"Did Alistair ask you to bring this?" he asked tightly, his eyes narrowed and his fingers disfiguring the parchment as he almost crumpled it beneath them.

"No," Wynne replied softly as Cousland tried to take back his words; her voice was gentle and understanding, so much so that Cousland became instantly suspicious, "it's from a mutual friend in fact."

He wanted to tell her that there was nothing to worry about, that everything was fine, but he couldn't bring himself to lie so very badly to such a close friend. Also he was sure that his emotion, so repressed and hidden as it was, would surely get the better of him if he were to try lying. He had tried to lie to _himself_ the night before and his ruffled, miserable appearance that morning had been testament to how well that had gone. Instead he simply brought the letter over to his side of the table and set about opening it. Truthfully enough the wax seal was blank, making his heart slow at least. When he opened it, however, everything seemed to simply skip back into the gear he had tried to remove it from.

It was a very short and hastily scrawled note in a familiarly messy hand.

_Don't let it happen. You never let anything just happen._

_Go and get him. You'll regret it for the rest of your life if you don't._

_You're the strongest person I know._

_I won't believe that you would give up until I see it.  
_

_A._

Cousland stared at it. Where had it come from, this burst of inspirational scribbles? How did he even _know_ what was happening? Matter of fact, how did Wynne know? What was happening here, some sort of conspiracy?

"You know about the King, don't you?" was all Cousland asked, quite aware that his voice was a little broken as he spoke, and that he was now refusing to use Alistair's name; he cleared his throat and swallowed down the burst of confusion and emotion which had rushed to the surface as he read. Wynne nodded, "How do you know?"

"I...well, it was through an unlikely source," Wynne said evasively, "an old colleague of mine, from the Circle."

"But no one knows," Cousland muttered, half to himself, before he started to rant uncontrollably, "this is...this is not acceptable! No one is supposed to know about this, let alone be spreading rumours. It could cause an incident, Wynne, a _huge_ incident if this were to become gossip among the people. Have you any idea how hard Ferelden fought to evade Orlesian rule? How much they still praise Loghain Mac Tir's name even after he was exposed as a traitor to the throne? How intense the rioting would be if they discovered even the _hint_ of an idea that their beloved King was set to join hands and skip merrily into bed with Orlais? This is serious! If word gets out then..!"

When he stopped it was because he became aware of the increasingly sad and pitying look in Wynne's eyes as she watched him. He couldn't stand it, that she wouldn't listen to the reason behind the situation, that she could only see what was right in front of her, only see the emotional side of the argument. He was fine, he didn't need her pity! Couldn't she see that there was more at stake here? That the political ramifications of this break in confidence could completely ruin the fragile connection that the Ferelden royals had forged with the Orlesian Empress?

That this could entirely destroy the stupid, foolish and selfish schemes of an idiotic bunch of old men who were forcing Alistair to follow their political lead? What on earth am I worried about? Cousland thought angrily, his mind in turmoil, I hate their fucking stupid plan anyway! To suddenly fall under Orlesian rule, just as they had found their feet with the freedom Alistair had instilled in creating their own democratic space within the kingdom, felt like the cold hand of oppression simply closing around them again; and Cousland hated it. But Alistair, he thought desperately, imagining the violence, the mindlessness, I can't ruin this for...

He stopped thinking. His mind surged with crashing, conflicting waves of logic, reason and emotion. Not a single one of them won out. His mind seemed to go blank. He fished for a neutral topic upon the calm sea.

"Are you staying for night?" he asked all of a sudden; Wynne seemed thrown by his question but quickly recovered.

"Actually I was hoping to be on my way by before noon," Wynne said conservatively, seeming to notice Cousland's need for distraction, "I'm planning to take a leisurely ride to West Hill, it should take about five days I think. So I'd best be off as soon as I can."

Cousland nodded, feeling the saliva stick in his throat as he was forced to think of more unpleasant issues. He stood from his chair by the table and wondered over to the fireplace to construct the beginnings of a fire, so he didn't have to do it later on.

"You'll be stopping at Highever though, won't you?" he said off-handedly while he piled the kindling, although even he could hear the bitterness in his voice.

"Well, I'm not sure if..." Wynne started hesitantly but Cousland cut her off.

"It's alright to say," he bit out even as he kept his friendly tone, becoming well aware that he was being irrational; she didn't bring it up, Cousland reminded himself, you did. Just shut up now before you get yourself into an even bigger mess, "I mean, you should. I think Fergus would like that."

No, he though derisively, nothing is forcing you to think of it. You're just a glutton for punishment aren't you? Just shut your mouth if you can't think of something useful to say. He stood up once the piled wood was in place, brushing his hands off against his cloak. As he looked down into the cold hearth a thought blinked into his mind.

"So wait," he thought, with genuine curiosity, "when did you see Anders?"

"Oh, a week or so ago," Wynne said with a slightly odd smile, "in Val Chevin, actually."

"Val _Chevin_?" Cousland said in disbelief, "As in Orlais? _That_ Val Chevin? What the flying fuck was he doing there?"

"As far as I understand it he was travelling," Wynne said vaguely.

"That bloody idiot," Cousland sighed tersely, "what was he thinking going that far out on his own?"

"Oh he wasn't on his own," Wynne corrected him quickly, "Serrah Hawke was with him."

Well I should have seen that one coming, Cousland thought with darkness in his mind, at least I should thank the arsehole for not letting him go off on his own like the irresponsible arse he usually is.

"That should have been more obvious to me I suppose," he muttered as he wandered back to the table but did not retake his seat.

"He did not seem exactly as hideous as you, well," Wynne smiled softly, "demonised him."

"Oh I'm sure he was very charming," Cousland muttered, shaking his head as he stared angrily at the table, "Bloody reckless pair of fools, the both of them. I swear if _anything_ untoward happens to Anders and I find out about it, the Champion of Kirkwall won't know what hit him."

* * *

The letter stared at him accusingly. Cousland stared back.

The letter seemed to turn its back and fold its arms. Cousland sat back in his chair and snorted derisively.

The letter looked over its shoulder and its contents reminded him that he was making the biggest mistake of his so far fairly short but very eventful life. Cousland found he had no words or cocky gestures with which to disagree with it.

"Commander, sir," came the young voice from the doorway.

Cousland turned in his chair to face the door. He had been sitting in the main dining hall, at the head of the main table, empty but for the settings of rugged cups and plates and dull cutlery. The room seemed cavernous without the usual hustle and bustle of food being ferried in and out, without the constant stream of loud, obnoxious, concerned, happy, sad, sly, stern, bored, inquisitive and a myriad of other voices filling the dank silence in which he sat.

The door was open only a few feet, seeming heavy and solid like a wall within itself, bolted with thick rivets and dark, iron straps hammered into the wood. The young Warden, who had woken him a week before, stood just within the gap between the door and the wall. She looked at him with a strict sense of propriety and yet he could discern the concern in her hard eyes. He could hardly blame her, even if he would have loved to take his simmering anger out on someone, considering he had been acting very strangely ever since his last return from Denerim a full month ago.

"Yes Warden?" he said back, realising he still didn't remember the girl's name.

"Sir, Dewin Meris is asking for you," she said, keeping her voice level and straight; Cousland would admit to himself, later, that he really liked the way she held herself and the way she spoke.

As he walked down the long, deep set of spiral stairs into the Keep's extensive underground sanctum, he tried to force himself to remember to learn her name. There was something about her, she seemed like she would make a good Warden. More than most of the other churls he had been sent. Of which we will soon be either freed of forever or stuck with until the end, Cousland thought morosely. He chastised himself for the thought only moments after it had run through his mind. Fuck, when did I become so immune to the thought of death, Cousland asked himself, these are people, not cattle.

The sanctum was immense in length although low enough that you couldn't fit even a horse below the dirt ceiling; and yet, to Cousland, it still seemed less lonely and vast than the fairly small dining hall had. It was probably because this place was always empty, but for one man. The stubby pillars that lined the long expanse of emptiness, keeping up the flat roof and hiding the ornate walls into which were carved the legacy of the Wardens, stood gloomily just out of the reach of the burning torches which sat around the alter in the centre of all the pomp and ceremony. At the far end of the hall was a lone set of flickering lights, distanced from the sinister atmosphere of the alter space. Cousland walked towards it with no hurry to his gait, listening to the stilted echoing of his boots on the heavy stone floor, feeling the letter like an irritating lump in his back pocket.

"You wanted to see me, Meris?" he said once he had reached the other side.

Dewin Meris was not someone who, at that specific moment in time, Cousland wanted to see. The Warden was not a new recruit but he had only been stationed at Vigil's Keep for the past six months, transferred from Orlais, where he had apparently only been stationed for three months, before which he had been further north in an outpost near Wiesshaupt and many other posts before that. Although it only took one look at the man to see he wasn't someone who would exactly fit in; in fact it only took one look too see that he didn't exactly fit any description of any race in Thedas, despite informing Cousland that he was originally from Antiva. Cousland liked to foster the idea that Meris wasn't even of this earth at all, although even he would admit it was a little farfetched.

The Antivan sat, straight backed and unconcerned, at a large, ulcerated table, on which he was dividing up the hideous black blood of fresh Darkspawn. It had been brought in as a package, picked up by Hannir and Andrew from a set of Wardens returning from Orzammar, whom Cousland had sent for the very specific task of obtaining their blood for the Joining. It seemed grizzly to Cousland somehow that Hannir and Andrew were already carrying with them the instrument of the new recruits torture when they recruited them from their homes, before the very eyes of their parents and loved ones. Meris wasn't making the thought any easier to bear.

His hair wasn't black, per se, but it seemed to shimmer slightly blue in the candlelight, dancing about his eyes and ears. His eyes _were_ black, even the whites were black, due to an experiment gone wrong or so Meris told him, and large like the elves were famous for. His face was slim and his features delicate, his lips thin and pale. His demeanour and his appearance would have been rather gothic if it hadn't been for the wonderful, bronze colour of his skin and the vividly dark, tribal tattoo which started at his collarbone and disappeared tantalizingly below the neck of his robes. Also the strange, almost incongruous smiles that graced his lips, usually at unwise or immoral moments, were another factor that stopped him from being stereotyped as the brooding weird man who sat in the basement creating spells and potions. Strangely enough Cousland couldn't tell if he was an attractive man or not; physically yes, personality wise...he had no idea. Sometimes he couldn't help but admire and appreciate Meris's dark and twisted sense of humour and other times it sent shivers up his spine. Still, Cousland thought, he's the best mage we've had since Anders was here, and probably, oddly enough, the one I would trust most after Nathaniel. When he asked himself why, most of the time he didn't have a good answer in reply.

"I remember when we had to hunt this down for ourselves," Meris said as he picked up a vial of sticky, dark blood; he started his conversation obliquely, as he usually did, "two of the recruits I travelled with died during the hunt. The other three were killed by the Joining. I was the only one to survive."

"Sounds familiar," Cousland said, folding his arms to stave off the chill of the stale underground air.

"You were also the sole survivor?" Meris asked as he replaced the vial into its wooden holder along with the others.

"Yes," Cousland replied, wondering why he was talking about a further depressing topic; this is what I get for continuing a conversation with him, he thought irritably, "although one wasn't killed fighting, he was killed trying to desert, when he learned the secret of the Joining."

"Ah, a wise man then?" Meris said, stealing out one of his sarcastic and yet disturbingly amused smiles, "I must say that the Warden sense of honour does nothing for effective breeding. If you aren't slaughtered for being smart you become infertile. Wonderful tradition really."

"Says the man who deals out the poison," Cousland said with a dry look and blank eyes.

"Touché, as the Orlesians would put it," Meris said with a shrug, "but we digress, I'm sure. Don't let my scintillating company distract you Commander, may we discuss business if you would be so kind?"

"Of course," Cousland said, shaking his head as he took the one other, rickety chair by Meris's table.

And they talked business, as Meris so tactfully put it. They discussed the time and the specifics of the procedure itself. Meris talked Cousland through any number of useful ways to keep control of the group when panic set in, which was a given considering the ritual could very well, and would very well, end in many deaths. Of course Cousland had done this before, quite a few times now, but it never became any more pleasant or simple. In truth Meris's low, rather sultry tone was entirely soothing as he suggested tactic after tactic of what could be considered crowd control. Then they repeated the words of the joining together, more as a way to put Cousland at ease, to distract him, than for any practical purpose. He knew the words off by heart without the mage's reminder.

It was as he stood to leave, stretching out the crick that had formed in his back as he sat tensely in the uncomfortable chair, that he let his mind wander back to the awful task that lay before him. You're not attached, he said again and again, they're just people you don't know, people who you have kept under your roof for a week alone. You should not care for them, you _don't_ care for them. You can start all of that nonsense once they are initiated, the practical part of his mind told the emotional part, you can start to look after them once you know they aren't going to be dragged out and burned on a pyre.

The thought made his stomach churn a little. He let his arms drop as he stopped stretching out his back. A sound behind him like rustling paper made him turn out of vague interest. What he saw there made him blanch white. Meris looked up at him, a very sickeningly familiar letter resting open between his slender fingers. Cousland's hand immediately rushed to his back pocket which he found empty. His next move was to rush forwards and grab the note forcefully from Meris's hands, in which he found no resistance.

He wasn't sure what look his face was contorted into; he guessed a mix between mortification and sheer fury. He could feel the ire and lust for violence building up in his system, a mix of his own inflammatory nature and the repressed feelings he had been harbouring for weeks and weeks. Meris seemed to notice the impending eruption in Cousland's burning eyes and, as normal, opened his mouth and defused the situation with an entirely unexpected statement.

"It's good advice," Meris said casually, "Maker knows it isn't going to be enough for you to have only _my_ wonderful self to look forward to every day. Something tells me that King Alistair is a far more tempting morsel. This _A_ , as they call themselves, seem to know what they're talking about. You should go."

"You..! I mean _what_..?" Cousland bit out hesitantly through gritted teeth, his mind jumping about like a confused rabbit, "Meris you little shit don't read my letters!"

"You dropped it," Meris said, cocking his head as he returned unconcernedly to his work, "and it was open. I merely looked down at the words. It was subconscious instinct which took in the semantic meaning."

"Fucking _semantic_..!" Cousland shouted; his anger boiled over the top and, as usual simmered back down to a simple, confused sense of impotent irritation, "oh you better fucking think yourself lucky I'm in a good mood, mage."

"No you're not," Meris looked up at him with a frown, "I'd rather you didn't lie to me so blatantly. I'm good with people. I can read them."

"You're not good with people," Cousland informed the mage tersely, rubbing at his forehead and closing his eyes, "you've been transferred over six times in the last year because no one can stand to have you around them!"

"And yet I've been here for six months," Meris said as if he was only just now contemplating his situation; he looked up at Cousland with a strange look of affectionate wonder, "does that mean you like me, Commander?"

Cousland opened his eyes and looked at the large, dark eyes staring up at him. Meris, for once in the half year Cousland had known him, looked strangely innocent despite his unnerving eyes. The dark pools stared at him and Cousland, for some inexplicable reason, felt the need to smile. He reached down and scratched at his neck, shaking his head as the smile rose unbidden to his lips. He looked back to Meris, still sitting patiently in his chair, and licked his dry lips before answering.

"Yes Meris," he said, "it means I like you."

"...Oh," Meris eventually replied with a look of casual innocence, the succinctness of which made Cousland laugh a little at the strangeness of it all, "that's nice."

Lien left the sanctum with an oddly conflicted sense of what was right and what was wrong; of leaving well enough alone or of rushing into the situation like a reckless fool and making a mess of things like he normally did. Or perhaps that doesn't apply here, Cousland thought, perhaps there is no such thing as black and white when it comes to what you feel. You feel what you do without consequence, you do it because you know it is only yourself you are punishing with dark thoughts. But here, he thought, but here it is also another I am ruining with my apathy. How can he know what this means to me if I don't tell him? How can I expect Alistair to know that it's killing me inside to see him used this way, see him taken away from me while I just sit back and watch it happen?

How can I expect him to know unless I kick him in the fucking balls and remind him just how bloody irresponsible and cold hearted he is being? Yes, Cousland thought as he climbed the stairs, the air lightening and the sunlight filtering down into the stairwell. He looked down at the crumpled, yellow parchment which he still held in his hands as he stepped up and up and up.

Some advice was hard to swallow and, when told to you, seemed absurdly obvious and simple; and sometimes you still just had to take it. This, Cousland thought as he shoved the letter back into his trouser pocket, was one of those times.


	2. Prick thy Vanity

He would not dwell on it. If he did he was sure to do nothing but sit staring into the fire while contemplating throwing himself into it.

Thirteen dead: Eleven subdued by the poisonous blood; two by his own hand.

Five lived.

Thirteen dead.

Two by his own hand.

The terrified eyes of the young blond woman stared at him when he closed his eyes in sleep. The stink of the young man's blood which he washed off of his hands and face would not leave him. The stinging in his eyes from the smoke of the mass funeral pyre, the sound in his ears of Hannah reading out the Chantry's lore to send their souls to rest.

He wouldn't think on it, he wouldn't think of the almost insensible loss of young life. He wouldn't think on it but, sickeningly, it was impossible not to be haunted by the lingering assault upon his senses.

Can I be called murderer? Slaughtering Darkspawn is no crime to us; the wanton genocide seemed nothing when compared to the deaths of thirteen women and men, daughters and sons. What is this that we believe is right and good, what is moral and what is immoral in this land ruled by death?

No, think not upon it. Save your sanity for the trials to come. Better it be simple, better it be life and death to contend with than political intrigue and hidden words.

* * *

"I'm not going," Meris said, "it's a stupid idea."

Lien Cousland had been raised as a spoiled child, even he would admit it when forced. His mother was a tough woman, trained in battle, wise and beautiful and strong, but she doted on her youngest son more than she ever did his elder brother. He was his father's 'pup', he was the youngest and the most coddled. He was not used to being told _no_.

Since losing the safety of home, the safety of his wonderful childhood, he would say he replaced the affection and indulgence of his parents with the adoration and awe created by becoming the Hero of Ferelden. So once more, he was not used to being told _no_.

"What the fuck do you think this is?" Cousland asked tightly, his arms folded as he stared down at the svelte mage, drinking soup from a bowl, "A bloody request?"

"I would assume that any request or order you would give to me," Meris said, pausing with irritating slowness to blow on his soup and then sip from the broth, "is perfectly open to critical analysis. I'm simply giving you my opinion."

"You said it was _stupid_ ," Cousland said as he took the chair next to the mage and set about venting his anger upon the large venison steak and boiled potatoes which sat before him, "that's hardly constructive criticism. I'm giving you an order; pack your things because you're coming with me. This is entirely your fault anyway."

"Such an inability to take responsibility for your own decisions," Meris said as if to himself while looking at the Commander critically, "I had nothing to do with your sudden change of heart. I merely pointed out the excellence of the advice you were awarded by another. That should neither make me responsible for your eclectic emotions nor responsible for chaperoning you to Denerim."

The dining hall continued to clatter and chatter around them, the host of Wardens consuming the hearty venison stew and enjoying the company and respite. Cousland had specifically asked for his meat to be served as it was, cooked in the vast ovens with the stew until it turned deep brown and dry on the outside but was still red and bleeding on the inside. It was a small consolation to the Commander as he stuffed the gamey meat into his mouth and chewed upon the flesh, savouring the rare flavour, but the good food could only cover so much of his irritation and, strangely, his nervousness.

"I am an obviously bad choice," Meris continued when he realised that he would receive no reply from Cousland, "I draw far too much attention, I am still regarded an apostate by many no matter that you consider mages free and I'm quite sure you would like to remain as anonymous as possible when visiting the Royal Palace."

"Yes, yes, fine," Cousland spat after swallowing his mouthful, spearing a potato and sighing as he eyed it, "I see your point, or your _many_ points. I'll ask someone else."

* * *

The Warden's name was Phillipa, the woman who had informed him of both Wynne and Meris's requests for council, which he discovered when he finally took the chance to ask her. She seemed far less rigid and confused than usual when he informed her, ad hoc after she returned from evening patrol, that she would be accompanying him to Denerim. Perhaps she was becoming used to his incongruous nature, or perhaps she was simply good at following orders. Cousland had not yet made up his mind.

He had sought her out after Meris's refusal, partly because he couldn't think of anyone else in the Keep whom he would trust to keep a secret if it came to that and who was also not indispensible to the Keep's safety in his absence; yet he was not vain enough to deny that it was mainly gut instinct that led him to discover Phillipa. Yet his gut was not only relaying useful information, but also niggling feeling that there was something strange and unknown grating against his nerves in the background. Not that he could explain it. In fact he had mainly put it down to his underlying woe and remorse. Somehow, even though he wished it were true, there was a little voice in his head that whispered to him of the dangers of doubt and lying to himself.

It turned out that his gut was, so far at least in regards to people, still in working order. The woman was not only succinct in her manner but blunt and pragmatic. Two days after announcing his plans to leave for the Royal City, after delegating his workload to the senior Warden's in his absence, he wandered down to the stables to find Phillipa was ready to leave even before he was.

"Ready to leave Commander," she said brightly, yet with an air of duty that could not be ignored.

He had nodded to her and they departed without further congress. As they trotted along the roughly hewn cobblestones onto the path that led to the main highway, Cousland felt his mind wandering. So impulsive, he thought in a derogatory fashion, how unlike me. No invitation to the royal court, no legitimate reason to abandon my post, and yet here I am, all for the sake of my own needs and wants, disobeying both my superiors and the crown. He lifted his head as his mare shifted beneath him into a steady trot. Phillipa adjusted her own steed's pace to suit.

It was true of him, he was normally not exactly subtle by nature. He was as careless and rash as he was calculating and careful. It was a flaw in his personality even as much as it was a boon to his leadership skills. Still, just as much as this sudden need to see Alistair could be attributed to his rash nature, so could it be attributed to more than just that. He had a bad feeling in his gut, something niggling and irrespective of his attempts to ignore it, it had become only more noticeable once he had decided to leave for Denerim. Cousland gripped the reigns tighter and shook his head before kicking at his horse's flank. She whinnied disagreeably but acquiesced nonetheless, jumping forwards into a swift canter and then a flying gallop.

He did not listen to anything but the sounds of her thumping hooves, accompanied by Phillipa's steed struggling to catch up.

* * *

"I would say that we have precious little to hold dear Commander," Phillipa said seriously, her bright eyes focused not on his face but on the candle at the table's centre, "and that if you have to do something stupid to risk holding onto whatever it is you have left, then it's worth it."

How they had stumbled upon this bizarrely personal conversation, Cousland couldn't rightly say. They were only twelve miles from Denerim, staying at a local inn at the small town of Gratsow in order to give the horses a chance to rest and themselves a small respite before the final leg of the journey. Well, that's what Cousland liked to tell himself were his reasons. If he were to be truthful, and there were precious few he would ever admit it to, he had stopped them short of Denerim so as to delay the inevitable. He wasn't scared, not so much, not at all, in fact he was more agitated than worried.

When he thought of Alistair, of the throng of unopened letters he had received from the man, never a personal visit, never a spare second to touch on the importance of _them_ over anything else, it made him...agitated. It made him sad, and he couldn't stand it. This wasn't him, he wasn't morose, he weathered through no matter what! And yet here he was...agitated. Sad. Brooding.

The journey, short as it was, had thus been mainly bereft of talk. Phillipa seemed to be a naturally quiet woman, talking only when necessary or when her superior asked something of her. She was pragmatic, sensible and very helpful; everything Cousland was looking for in a travelling companion. Normally, however, Cousland could make up for the lack of talk during a journey with his own relentless tongue. He could talk the hind legs off a horse when he was in the mood, or so he'd been told. So, considering both he and Phillipa stayed unreservedly tight lipped, the tension in the air, mainly deriving from Cousland's own agitation, was rather unbearable.

They camped out the first night, then the second they stayed at a Warden outpost in the north eastern fold of the Bannorn. Everything had gone as he thought it would; straight forward, no messing around, no complications.

Until the third night.

Gratsow was a small town but Cousland would admit that the atmosphere was one of the most welcoming and enjoyable in all the Eastern holds. He had passed through three times before and stopped over once, and on every occasion he would say that there was something about the town that lightened your spirits. The residents were oddly friendly and cordial, especially for the outlying towns of Denerim in which most tended to be grim faced and, on a whole, more miserable than most. Gratsow, in comparison, was a lively trade centre, due to its proximity to the vast Denerim port and fishery, and the extensive and fertile fields which stretched between it and Alamar island. It was always busy, bustling with life, and the inn was always filled with people, good, hearty food and a traditionally brewed, local ale affectionately termed 'King's spit'. Cousland didn't entirely know why they named it so unsavourily considering it was the best ale from there until Orzammar.

So perhaps Cousland _did_ know how he and Phillipa had ended up sitting at a lopsided, wobbly table, unheard beneath the constant chatter and singing filling the inn's pub, talking about why the Commander of the Grey should not be allowing the King of Ferelden to marry. He was blaming the ale.

"Well I wouldn't say I hold him _dear_..." Cousland shook his head and sighed, rubbing at his face and trying to think how to change the subject.

"Please Commander," Phillipa said with a scathingly incredulous look, "I'd rather we didn't beat around the bush in regards to this. It was one of the first rumours I heard when I joined the troops at Vigil's Keep and it didn't take long to find out that it was more than just a rumour. Every one of the Ferelden Wardens I have met knows."

Cousland was glad that she had said her bit before he took a long swallow of calming, hoppy ale, otherwise he was sure it would have been spat all over the, admittedly dirty, table. It wasn't that he was worried, not really, if something were to come of he and Alistair's clandestine affair it would have happened already, but it was more the fact of being told straight to his face by a subordinate that _everybody knew_.

"Everyone knows," he repeated quietly while he smiled deprecatingly and shifted his mug around and around between his two palms, staring forwards into the shifting crowds of revellers.

"And yet they still respect and honour you Commander," Phillipa said strongly before taking a swig of her own drink; she wiped her mouth on her sleeve and looked directly into his eyes, forcing him to meet her gaze, "I'm sure that tells you all you need to know."

Cousland found, even as he opened his mouth to reply with something snappish before closing it resolutely, that he couldn't argue with her logic; or begrudge her acceptance of something that he wished he _could_ still hold dear.

* * *

The Royal Castle in the wet, gloomy city of Denerim seemed oddly bustling as they approached, their horses breathing milky clouds into the cold air as they walked forwards, heads bent down towards the muddy ground. Richly dressed men and women were walking in and out of the main gate, the portcullis raised, with young elven servants scurrying after them. Horses and carts were ferrying crates and barrels in and out of the castle, large wicker baskets of foodstuffs, vegetables and imported fruits which must have been brought in specially as it was the wrong season here in Ferelden for most of what Cousland saw amongst the lavish host of foods packed tightly in straw. Some large event was clearly being prepared but what that might be Cousland had no idea.

The sky was overcast but bright, the sun struggling to break through the thick cloud. The guards spared him only a second glance before recognising his face, allowing both himself and Phillipa safe passage through into the courtyard. As they entered a harsh cawing brought Cousland's gaze up to his right, to the frosty wall of the castle's outer defences; there he found a sleek, black raven staring back at him. He frowned at the bird as he walked his horse onwards towards the stables, its pitch eyes following him as it cocked its head with seeming inquisitiveness.

He did not realise it when they entered the courtyard and he did not realise it when they left their horses with the familiar stable hand in and walked with impunity up into the castle's innards. He did not notice it as he walked the heavy, cold stone corridors, nodding to the guards on duty whom he recognised and receiving salutes in reply. He did not even notice it when he walked up the stairs and into the throne room proper, up across the rich, thick rugs which dampened the heavy tread of his boots. He did not suspect a single thing until he spied the two unfamiliar women standing by Bann Teagan and Alistair, who was himself standing beside his throne instead of sitting in it, accompanied by a heavy set, stern looking man whose gaze leveled on Cousland as he approached.

He did not suspect a thing until he heard the thick Orlesian accents that halted quickly as he stopped at the bottom of the pair of steps which led up to the Ferelden throne. Teagan was the first to speak, even if he was not the first to notice him.

"My Lord Cousland," he said, eyes stark and countenance clearly betraying his surprise, "what...I mean, your arrival is most unexpected."

His reply would have been more succinct if at that moment Cousland hadn't been staring rather hard at Alistair who, on hearing Cousland's name mentioned, had snapped his head swiftly to the left and stared right back. There was an awkward pause, during which the two ladies, with whom Alistair had been conversing until he was distracted, eyed Cousland with cold interest and Cousland did his best to ignore them in return. He blinked, moved his hard eyes away from Alistair and focused on Teagan. One thing he had not missed was Teagan's overly formal speech which he only used around Cousland on official occasions.

"Sorry for the surprise," Cousland said with a forced smile, flicking his eyes towards the ladies, "and for the interruption."

"Not at all," Teagan said with a strained, casual tone, reaching out to pat him on the shoulder as a rouse into leading him away from the royal chamber and out into the adjacent corridor; Cousland played along, following Teagan as he walked towards one of the large sitting rooms in the east wing, Phillipa following her Commander closely, "but you really should have informed us of your visit, we would have made preparations."

"Oh I don't know if that was necessary," Cousland said as he stepped aside while continuing to walk, allowing three men carrying heavy looking chests to pass them by, "looks like you're already quite prepared."

To say that he was still simply agitated would be a drastic understatement. Cousland could feel that antagonistic itching shivering not just in his hands but over his entire body, as if a fire had been kindled within him. Here, he thought darkly, they have the nerve to come _here_. They did not speak another word until they reached the empty sitting room and Teagan had closed all of the doors, informing the guards outside both entrances not to allow anyone inside while they were within. His paranoia even seemed to extend to Phillipa as, when Teagan turned to begin talking to him, he eyed her distrustfully. Cousland would have argued for her to stay but, knowing Teagan, he would never be convinced.

"Phillipa, would you mind waiting outside please?" Cousland said politely to the other Warden.

"Of course, Commander," she said, saluting sharply before walking, without preamble, out of the door through which they had entered.

"So," Cousland said with as much falsified normality as he could cram into his dull tone, "the prospective bride to be has come for a visit, eh?"

"I wish you would keep your voice down," Teagan said irately, placing his hands upon his hips before beginning to pace beside the large, unlit fireplace; Cousland stood beside one of the heavily brocaded armchairs that faced the dark fireplace and leaned against it, his arms tightly folded, "not everyone is as privileged as you to this sort of information."

"I think you underestimate the sensibilities of both your employees and your loyal subjects," Cousland couldn't help but say the last words with a hearty sense of sarcasm, "you haven't made this meeting exactly secret, now have you? I mean really, openly ferrying Orlesian princesses into the Denerim court, Teagan! Have you lost your mind?"

The older man stopped his pacing as Cousland's voice rose, only to find the Commander staring at him angrily. He sighed and shook his head as if in subjugation, but Cousland knew better than to underestimate even those he considered friends in times like these.

"I wish it were as simple as refusing them," Teagan said tiredly, "but this is a delicate time, of which you are _well_ aware. There are certain conditions that must be met before anything solid can be formed between our two countries."

Cousland suppressed a shiver of distaste, instead opting for a light sneer and averting his eyes from Teagan whom, up until a few months before, he had held in high esteem. He found it difficult to continue his respect for the man when he spoke so openly of the farcical marriage of their foolish King and an Orlesian princess.

"This visit is a vital part of that plan," Teagan said in what could have been taken as a pleading voice.

"Making you jump through hoops like good little dogs are they?" Cousland replied with stalwart bitterness, "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised."

"That isn't what this is," Teagan said with a heavy frown, "and this isn't out of the ordinary. Any royal pairing takes preparation. Take that in concurrence with having to be very careful about how this is handled, considering the rather rocky nature of Ferelden's past with Orlais, and it becomes more protracted than usual."

"Don't lecture me on history I am well aware of," Cousland said with a sharp sigh, pushing away from the armchair as the fire under his skin momentarily flared, making him jittery and restless, "look, I'm not here to discuss who is bloody well doing what for whom and vice versa, alright?"

"Then why are you here?" Teagan bit back, obviously fairly troubled himself if he was losing his composure this easily.

Why are you here? It was a good fucking question, Cousland thought, and its one I should most certainly not have to explain to anyone except Alistair. If you haven't figured it out by now Teagan, he thought, then you never will. Although even he would give Teagan the benefit of the doubt, considering Cousland's rather unstructured, impromptu plan had no real actual _plan_ behind it...it wasn't something he thought anyone would have been expecting. Still, that didn't make it any less obvious. Teagan, considering he knew better than most exactly how much Alistair meant to Cousland, should have known better.

"I need to speak to Alistair," he said coldly, "that is all. You don't need to worry about anything Teagan, I doubt I'll be missed if we leave tomorrow. I'm sure you can spare myself and my subordinate a bed for the night at least, can't you?"

"O-of course we can spare you rooms for the night but..." Teagan's frown only deepened as Cousland retreated under his icy shell.

"Good, then I ask that you have someone show us there immediately," Cousland said, unfolding his arms, "I will speak with Alistair this evening, if he is not too busy that is."

He made for the door, outside which Phillipa would be waiting. He heard Teagan asking him to wait but ignored him. This strategy would have prevailed if not for Teagan's closing words. Cousland had opened the door and made to leave as Teagan laid yet another piece of cold, hard news upon his shoulders.

"Wait Lien!" he said urgently; Cousland should have known it was serious if Teagan was using his given name.

"What is it?" he spat coldly, uncaring as to who heard them, turning around harshly to glare at Teagan as he stood importunately in the middle of the room.

"Your brother, Teryn Cousland, is also visiting the King," Teagan said, making Cousland stand stock still, his heart leaping into his throat, "he's staying here in the castle. I...thought you should know."

* * *

News of a fight breaking out, a riot in the streets, an invasion of hideous monsters or blood mages or dragons or Darkspawn...he would have taken anything over the prospect of running into Fergus. The mere mention of his brother's name had sent the Commander of the Grey, with Phillipa at his heels, hurrying along behind the pageboy who showed them to the guest quarters on the second floor in the west wing of the castle.

He stepped inside and closed the door against both the page boy and Phillipa's confused expressions. Cousland did not care for their own concern for his actions. All he cared for, as everything slowly slid down and down towards the nightmare situation, was his own ability to hide from it all. Of course that didn't stop people from knocking upon his door, continuously.

Phillipa was the first. She seemed to skirt around the issue nimbly as they spoke, seemingly trying to both put him at ease while ferreting out the cause of his unease. Cousland rebuffed all attempts, even when Teagan visited his chambers and tried to continue their conversation from earlier. He was so very reasonable that it only served to make Cousland even more irate. Next came the stable hand with his saddle bags, filled with his equipment, then a maid to ask if he would be coming down for dinner. When the next knock came, only a few minutes later, he was so on edge that he merely snapped out,

"Come in!" as he stood and rooted through his bag, looking for the fresh shirt he had kept there just in case, adding in a grumble, "everyone else has."

The door opened. The silence that lingered there, as he faced away from the door towards the bed and looked down into his bags, was the first clue. Then the door closed. Cousland took a deep breath and straightened up, placing his hands on his hips. The silence continued. He turned around decisively, wishing that he could feel as confident as his gesture suggested.

"I'd say I can't believe you didn't write ahead," Alistair said, his fingers twisting around each other in a flagrant display of nerves, "but I think I should be used to you springing up unexpectedly."

"...Right," Cousland replied awkwardly after a pause, simply staring at Alistair in reply.

"Umm, yes, well," Alistair said, placing his hands upon his hips and not moving away from the closed door, "did you...did you get my letters?"

"Yes," Cousland said, omitting that he had never opened a single one before tossing them onto the fire.

"I...see," Alistair said slowly when Cousland did not elaborate, "well, I mean, are you staying?"

"Just tonight," Cousland said; he could feel himself curling inwards, refusing to react, forcing up a cold exterior as defence.

"Alright," Alistair said, nodding helplessly as he breathed deeply, "I see. Well, I suppose I should leave you to your unpacking then, not that you'll need it though considering your only staying for tonight, thus common sense dictates you were just trying to do something to make ignoring me a _valid_ thing, but then surely _you_ wouldn't..."

It was an odd mix of sheer, aggravated tension, caused by Alistair's rambling, mixed with the deep, lingering, need to touch him which drive Lien to turn, stride across the room in two swift steps and slam the wide eyed King up against the stone wall. The kiss wasn't exactly pleasant, more rough, biting, carnal, more savagery than love. Alistair's hands seemed to have leapt up reflexively, clinging tightly to the soft fur of his armour as Cousland's hands jerked him closer, curled around his waist. He hadn't even been truly aware how rough he was being until Alistair let out a muffled sound of pain and quickly shoved them apart.

They stood there, panting, a few feet apart, the space between them both electric and paradoxically deadened. Alistair wiped at his lip and his hand came away bloody. Cousland drew in a long breath and let it out as a weary sigh, lifting his hand to rub at his forehead. This wasn't how it was supposed to be, he thought tiredly, this was meant to be...to be...

"Well, oh, I think I..." Alistair was saying a little dazedly before stopping to suck at his split bottom lip; he managed, somehow, to have lost his shyness in favour of looking entirely stunned "...I completely lost my chain of thought...no, wait, there it is."

Oh how he had missed that childlike, witty sense of humour that never failed to make him smile. He would have, smiled that is, if he hadn't been so horribly torn between his traitorous feelings and his sense of honour. He watched Alistair like a hawk, waiting for him to continue, hoping beyond hope that he would say something profound or sweet or something he needed to hear...

"We're feasting in the main hall," Alistair said, "just thought I'd let you know the food is being brought out. I, well, I saved you a spot."

Then, with that, he turned and left without further adieu. The factual statement held none of the declarations Cousland had been hoping for, even if it was still so very distinctly _Alistair_. He stared at the door as it closed and felt his entire body relax. He hadn't noticed, until that point, just how tensely and rigidly he had been holding himself. Fuck, he thought harshly, _fuck_! What in the Black is wrong with me? I'm not here to...to maul him into fucking submission, I'm...I'm here to, I mean...to convince him that, well, that I'm...

Sometimes, when he was a little boy, he had been struck by certain feelings which others seemed either immune to or unaware of; one had been the ability to tell when an endeavour was fruitless, in vain, hopeless. He would get a strict feeling of nausea in his gut and the thought of going on, of continuing through towards an end that would surely never come, only made the experience all the more unbearable. He had always been sensitive to this aspect of failure, something both personal and intrinsic to his nature. Right now Cousland couldn't tell whether the roiling in his gut could be attributed to that feeling or simply to his own highly strung nerves which were keeping him constantly on edge.

I said I wouldn't give up, he thought even as he sat down heavily on the edge of the simple bed and put his face in his hands, but it seems so bloody petty now. I should be better than this, better than my own base nature. I need to think of Ferelden, think of her future, the future of my homeland and her survival. Not my own desires. Shit, I've been sacrificing my own happiness for _years_ now, he thought bitterly, why stop just because it's taken the last thing I truly give a damn about? The thought made him wince at his own insensitivity; flashes of his mother's pleading eyes, his father's face splattered in his own blood, the bodies of his friends burning, his family, Darkspawn, Warden's, the young woman's pleading face, the young man's blood on his hands...

He pressed his fingers against his tightly closed eyelids until he saw stars dancing behind them. Quiet, he thought morosely, please just be quiet. He pulled his hands away from his eyes before pressing them to his mouth, holding his breath until the raging torrent of maddening feelings rushed too close to the surface. No, he thought, no I won't do this to myself. Get up, he thought strictly, following his own orders as he stood and quickly pulled the shirt from his bag, put your shirt on, get downstairs and act your part. There's more at stake here than your blasted, petty fucking _love_.

As he stepped lightly down the stairs towards the main hall, Phillipa his silent companion, he wished it were true.

Even more than his desires becoming reality he wished that, at the very least, he could fool himself into believing it.


	3. April is the Cruellest Month

Dinner was a stilted affair, as could be expected. Cousland did not need to attend to know how it was going to unfold but attend he did. Sitting two seats down from the King and across the table and four seats away from Princess Aurélie and her handmaiden; and directly across from Fergus Cousland and his lovely wife. He found himself alternately consciously ignored and actively scrutinised by all three parties. Of course he didn't have time to start any conversations of his own, as unlikely as that would have been, as the guests themselves seemed to have their own subtly antagonistic diatribes to espouse. It seemed he was not the only one unhappy with the Orlesian Princess's sudden appearance. The other Lords and Ladies at the table, Teryns and Terynas, seemed singularly focused on borderline caustic comments about the King's choice of guests.

"And when will the lovely Princess be returning to Orlais?"

Cousland would admit he was a little taken aback, not by the statement but by who had said it. Fergus Cousland was a fair man, Lien could say that despite his personal feelings towards his brother, but a strict nationalist he had not taken him for. Not that Lien could entirely blame him, considering the tales they had been told growing up, their father relating exciting tales of the war with Orlais and the brave souls who routed them from the land, Maric Theirin and Loghain Mac Tir leading the armies to win back their land from the oppressors. Yet a lot had changed since they were boys, huddled together beneath thick blankets by the light of the fire, rapt with attention and hanging on their father's every word. Now his father was gone, as was his mother, his childhood and, to all intents and purposes, his brother. He saw little to no loyalty in holding onto a ludicrous sentiment which would bring him nothing but pain. He had learned to live with the harsh realities of life and all that it entailed.

"And here I would have thought you'd take any opportunity to make more friends Fergus," Cousland found himself saying, stopping to take a mouthful of soup; he hadn't looked at his brother as he spoke but he could feel those familiar eyes upon him, "of the influential kind, anyway."

There was a smattering of nervous and polite laughter across the table. It echoed slightly in the large hall. The candles flickered in the tall, polished candelabras and the draught at his feet continued to turn his feet into blocks of ice. He wasn't sure why he had said it, not entirely. It wasn't a secret, not at all, that Fergus had been gaining political and economic support recently through the many channels open to him as Teryn; trading treatise with Westhill, setting up troop alliances with Amaranthine in return for use of their well connected port. There was even word that Lord Haygen of the Bannorn had promised his daughter Hellena to Fergus' son Ollias, children though they were, in return for an alliance between their strongholds.

Yet even when rationalising it as such it didn't make it any more right. Lien's words had been antagonistic and he knew it, he just wasn't sure entirely why. His rocky history with his brother wasn't enough to have him degrade the man in public. Lien was already uncomfortable enough as it was without finally having to look at his brother and find the other man staring down at his plate as he ripped at his bread savagely before shoving it into his mouth, his jaw so tight Lien was surprised he could chew.

Wonderful, Lien thought morosely, just wonderful. The first words he had said to his brother in years and they were enough only to enflame the latent anger and hatred between them. Fergus' wife touched her husband's arm softly but he subtly shrugged her off. She looked to Lien in concern but the Commander looked away hurriedly, back to his soup. It tasted of nothing at all as he poured it continually down his throat.

When will this all be over, he thought, when will this all be over?

The world as he saw it had seemed to slide about before his eyes. He had decided, before descending, how things should be. As he sat and stared at his plate he realised how things were. Walking out of the dinning hall after everything was over, listening vaguely to the sounds of voices, loud and whispered, he made his way back to the room at the top of the stairwell.

He knew that he was being followed but to an extent he knew how little it meant. Nothing had changed. Wasn't that what he had come here to do? Why did he listen to such sentimental, optimistic _nonsense_? Tell Alistair how he _felt_? Was that supposed to make everything better? Alistair already knew how Cousland felt, that was the worst part. He was willing to sacrifice it in place of stability for Ferelden and it made Lien feel small that he hadn't been willing to do it himself. Now all he could do was ignore the hollow feeling that arose whenever he entertained the prospect of going on alone and allowed Alistair to slip into the room after him. Lien took a seat and didn't even look round before the words started to flow.

"Perhaps it's all just a fairy tale," he eventually said as he sat before the fire, "I've never been very good in believing them. Not since the Blight. Fairy tales coming true is one way to break the magic of it all. The Arch Demon was far more real than I ever thought possible and the Darkspawn _are_ real, but it was odd somehow...defeating something that my father used to tell me about to get me to go to sleep...I don't know. It's all just..."

He turned to look at Alistair as the King stood, eyes downcast, half turned away towards the closed door behind him. Cousland felt sick to his stomach and yet resigned. Alistair had never been strong for himself, he was strong for others. He was reliable and dependable but he was interminably fragile because he had little to no self confidence. Cousland knew what that was like, he knew that sometimes it was hard to believe in yourself when so many others were clamouring for a piece of you. Alistair did what others expected of him, even if it was to become the ruler of a nation or to lead an army against a giant, Darkspawn commanding dragon and its legions. Or to sacrifice his love for his country. Perhaps Lien had begun to irrationally fear that Alistair only returned his love because Lien had asked it of him.

"I'm..." Alistair cleared his throat and straightened up, turning to face Cousland as he sat twisted in his chair, "but then you know already what I'm going to say. I mean that, well, it's going to happen. I'm marrying Auriéle before winter is out. Teagan and Arl Eamon think it would be best to usher in the news as spring comes in, everyone will maybe feel a little happier, you know, less depressing, cold, dark nights and lots of flowers and flies to cheer everyone up."

He was trying to make light of the situation, Lien knew that from experience. One thing it was difficult to do with Alistair was to get him to take anything seriously. Do you even care? Lien thought as he listened to Alistair babble on. It wasn't a fair thought to think but he couldn't help himself. Lien didn't know and, in truth, he didn't want to know. All he knew was that he loved the man who had just told him that he was going to marry Princess Auriéle and that nothing would change that. He hoped that the same was true of Alistair. Even as he wished that this was their truth, it still made that the saddest point of their exchange. He wanted to be happy. He wanted peace and safety and security for Ferelden. He wanted to know that the Blight would not return for another hundred years. He wanted...

And perhaps that was the fairy tale. Wanting what could never be promised.

"Fergus seems enamoured of your guest," Cousland said for lack of something better to say.

"Well forgive me for not caring _what_ that prick thinks or says," Alistair retorted blithely, "I'll take his views into consideration when he's man enough to apologise to you."

Don't make me agree with you when I'm trying to oppose you, Cousland thought bitterly. He should never have brought up Fergus, what was he thinking? But striking while the iron was hot, as they said...

"Oh, you mean for disowning his own brother because of his clandestine relationship with the King of Ferelden?" Cousland said as straight as could.

"Oh, no," Alistair said, waving his hands dramatically, "I meant for the time he locked you in the basement when you were seven; yes of course that's what I'm talking about!"

"Don't think sarcasm's going to get you anywhere," Cousland said back acidly, "when you're being such a hypocrite."

Silence. Lien felt the poison of anger and disappointment tensing in his muscles.

"I wish you'd never asked me," Alistair stated suddenly; Cousland had turned away to look back into the fire and could only hear Alistair's low voice as he spoke, "to be King. I wish you'd never forced it on me. I never wanted this and now I know why."

"I didn't force you," Cousland said in irritation.

"Oh don't start," Alistair said; he sounded hurt but Cousland could not turn to face him, "oh look, there's Alistair the gullible idiot with his one defining character trait, that he's Maric Theirin's son! That's what everyone always thinks when they find out. I'm pretty much bloody useless despite that. Why did you think I didn't want to tell you? I knew as soon as you heard that it would be all you saw when you looked at me."

"But it wasn't!" Cousland turned angrily in his chair, his ire winning out over his fear, "I never...damn you Alistair you know that's a lie. Don't insult me further!"

Alistair turned his sullen eyes back towards the thick rug under his feet. Lien swallowed and wished he were anywhere but here.

"I...I love you," he said gruffly, feeling like a fool, "and you know that I've _never_ used you or belittled you or...fuck, what do you want from me? Am I the fool now? I'm not the one allowing myself to be manoeuvred around the chess board by a bunch of _politicians_."

"Now who is being insulting," Alistair said quietly, his eyes narrowing a little, "you don't seem to understand. I don't have a choice in this."

"Of course you have a choice!" Lien said, finally having had enough as he stood from his chair and rounded on the other man, hands angrily at his sides, "Use your bloody initiative Alistair you prat! Tell them..!"

"I don't mean it like that," Alistair interrupted roughly, "I mean, well, look...it's complicated, things...I just...sit down will you?"

So Cousland sat down and listened while Alistair talked. Talked of the hidden dialogues between Ferelden and Orlais, of the vague but, if their spies were to be trusted, entirely warranted threat of war which the Empire posed, of the severely decreased numbers of soldiers under the Teryns since the Blight, of the food shortages due to high taxes on imported goods after many farms had been destroyed in the war, of high mortality rates due to disease and pestilence, turmoil even in their own internal politics. On top of all of that the mages of Ferelden may have been freed but the fear and prejudice against them had not; outbreaks of lynching and revenge killings had been rampant throughout the land. Everything that left Alistair's mouth added up to almost insurmountable odds in the favour of Orlais whose empire was, at the moment, sickeningly stable despite the mage uprisings and Ferelden's abdication from the Chantry.

Cousland sat and listened. He heard it all and knew that it should strengthen his resolve to support Alistair's cause and his willingness for sacrifice. Lien wished himself more magnanimous.

He wished himself more forgiving.

"The only way to avoid bloodshed is to do this peacefully," Alistair said as he looked at his joined hands and sighed, shaking his head, "believe me I wish...I wish there was something I could do, some way to solve this but, well, I'm not my father. Curse the man's name to the Black but I don't have a Loghain; I almost wish that I did."

* * *

He could have hated himself for waiting for Alistair to leave, for not replying to any further questions and leaving the man mute with sadness, for accepting the kiss but not returning it, but he did not.

Was it the isolation he had forced himself into or an actual refusal to feel? Cousland did not consider either. He did not have to question his own feelings. Why should he? He was a war hero, a Grey Warden, a noble's son; he needed no comfort, he needed no one but his troops and a goal.

A goal to replace the one which he had envisioned from the moment he had awoken in the shabby tent on the plains that stretched before Ostagar, the Archdemon's thick, dark blood still slathered across the front of his armour and Wynne's overjoyed face staring down into his. For a sublime moment everything had disappeared and he could not think or speak. A few moments later Alistair ran into the tent raving like a madman and crushing Lien in his arms until Wynne had to intervene and coax the distraught man away from him with promises to care for the injured and voiceless Cousland.

He remembered the thoughts of living the rest of his life as best he could before he was driven mad, consumed by the taint, and spent the last days of his miserable existence in dark, darkspawn infested tunnels until he was eventually killed or threw himself into the molten core of the earth from sheer despair.

But in that thought, bleak as it may have been, at least he was able to count Alistair at his side. Things had seemed a shade lighter than pitch.

Now it seemed to consume him as much as the black blood in his veins. He would not care because he couldn't let himself. The world would stay the same no matter what dilemmas he faced and he did not have the audacity or the courage to force a change.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is taken from T S Eliots's 'The Wasteland'


	4. Batter my Heart

"A moment of your time, Warden Commander."

The night had been long and sleepless; alternately angrily pacing the floor or staring into the fire, Cousland had not touched the fine, heavily blanketed bed as he fought against his own demons. He did not need it, he told himself, but in truth he did not want it. He knew the nightmares that lay in that bed, waiting for him to let his guard down. No, he would not be tortured any more than he already felt. Sleep had not been the answer.

He had looked for the first rays of dawn before waking Phillipa. The pair made themselves ready to depart with an efficiency bred of practice and discipline, on Phillipa's part anyway. For Lien he couldn't lie to himself and say it wasn't a visceral need to be away from this place, away from the seat of everything he felt was worst in his life at that moment.

So they had prepared to leave, and the stables had been empty but for him, until Cousland was startled by the sudden request in a familiar voice. He turned away from preparing his horse for the long ride back to Vigil's Keep only to find Bann Teagan standing behind him with an air of casual tension.

"A moment is all I have to spare," Cousland replied succinctly, "so out with it."

He had expected Teagan to be fazed, at least a little, by his abrupt behaviour but the man simply did as requested. After their rather heated discussion the day before Cousland would admit that he was surprised by Teagan's candour and calm repose. Yet it was as the man began to talk that Cousland realised he had not only sneaked into the stables undetected but he had also shut the heavy wooden door behind him and looked around to make sure there were no eavesdroppers before continuing. He felt a wary tension creep into his limbs.

"I do not have long and we must be discreet," Teagan's words confirmed Cousland's suspicion; the Commander narrowed his eyes but did not interrupt as Teagan took a breath before continuing, "I did not have a chance to talk to you yesterday, your arrival was so abrupt. I would have preferred a location away from the Castle to discuss this but...this will have to do. I fear there may be a plot against the throne."

Silence followed, broken only by the sounds of horses snorting and the shifting of hooves against stone. Cousland stared at the man in disbelief long enough for Teagan to continue without a response, whether positive or negative.

"We have had reports of the Bannorn and Highever amassing and training troops, word of meetings between the Teryns in secret, rumours that they are plotting dissent..." Teagan continued until he was harshly interrupted.

"Hold your tongue," Cousland spat, viscously enough to make Teagan start with surprise; he eyed the man harshly, knowing exactly what Teagan was skirting around in his accusations, "be careful what you say, unless you have hard proof to lay a foundation for your claim."

"We have several reports, from trusted sources, of treason amongst our own Banns, believe me that I would not stand for lies and half truths in a situation such as this," Teagan said sincerely.

"You fear there is a plot to murder Alistair and you only come to me _now_?" Cousland said angrily, the news sinking in slowly but surely; how could this be possible? "What on earth is wrong with you Teagan! What measures have been taken to combat this?"

The hesitation should have been the first bad sign. Cousland sighed harshly as Teagan shook his head and tried to sound contrite.

"There is not enough evidence for us to make any formal accusations," he said, "but it is only due to the conspirators being clever, not our own failings. I know this must be hard for you to hear, and I did not mean to have to spring this on you in such a manner, but Teyrn Cousland has also been implicated in this threat..."

"My brother loves his country," Cousland interrupted once more, his voice harsh as he forced himself not to shout, "and he will honour his king. How _dare_ you come to me with these half baked allegations of treason when you have stated yourself that you have _no_ _evidence_!"

Teagan stared as Cousland shook his head and snorted venomously. Why are we always left with the bureaucracy of the court instead of his preferred method; straight forward, face to face interrogation. It would have been the first thing he would have suggested, take the suspected traitors in one by one and question them until any scrap of truth to back up Teagan's allegations could be found. Damn their positions and their pride, this was far too serious an allegation to skirt around niceties. It made him uneasy, however, that mention of Fergus' name had made his conviction, which had arisen so suddenly, waver. This is madness, Cousland thought desperately, what can Teagan be thinking? Treason, against the king? Not for centuries has Ferelden known such barbarism.

"I come to you because I do not know who else to trust," Teagan said earnestly, his eyes hard, "and all I ask is that you keep an ear to the ground, Commander, and be ready should anything arise to threaten the crown."

Before he could even summon a reply Teagan turned and left, opening the door just as Phillipa appeared, skirting around each other expertly. She watched Teagan leave with an air of half interest before handing over the pack of supplies she had fetched to Cousland. Lien did not even notice that he must have looked as if he were away with the fairies until Phillipa touched his arm.

"Are you alright, Commander?" she asked.

"Not until I'm away from here," he said truthfully, his face set.

His statement was met with a curt nod. He and Phillipa mounted their steeds and rode out into the sleepy dawn. Cousland buried the clamouring questions beneath his consciousness and focused on the wind rushing past his face, the smell of wet earth and the glaring sunshine behind luminescent clouds.

The memory of Alistair's kiss against his lips, his kind, gentle touch against his face, lingered at the core of his mind; no matter how hard he tried to forget.

* * *

It was a large room, very large. The ceiling seemed miles away, murky and dark, as the sky on a thundering day. The floor was cold and hard. Everything seemed empty. There was a slight fog in the distance, dim and hurtful. Cousland felt a loneliness in his limbs which had not been there for what felt like an age.

Yet there was a sound, a whispering heat in his ear. The words were indistinct, jumbled and lost to his understanding. He felt a sickness rolling around in his stomach, churning leisurely. Why couldn't he leave? He thought angrily, Why am I stuck here? I need to go, it is important that I go. He felt something in the palm of his hand and looked down.

The key shone brightly amidst the gloom, as a beacon would. The voice in his ear grew louder, louder and louder, and yet still he could not understand what was being said. It raised to an awful crescendo in his ears. Cousland raised his hands in sheer supplication, dropping the key to the floor where it was swallowed helplessly. Please, I need to go! he thought again, trying to move his feet but failing. There was a rising sense of being watched, from something within that terrible gloom. Where is he? He should be there by now. I need to go!

Suddenly everything fell dangerously quiet.

' _Foolish one_ ' the voice said, crisp and clear and loud and yet distortedly gruff, ' _you will never be free_ '

Lien woke with such a start that he pulled a muscle in his side. He hissed in pain and crumpled back to the ground, onto the measly bedroll which lay under the thin tent in the forest where they had camped. The embers of their camp fire were still barely glowing when he looked over. Haven't been asleep long, have I, Cousland thought. He lay on his bedroll, slowing his panted breath and tried to bring his nerves under control. It was just a nightmare, he told himself sternly, nothing more. Get a hold of yourself Cousland.

He shuffled out of his tent on his hands and knees, wary of his aching side, feeling the dry dirt beneath his hands. The woods were pitch dark but the moon overhead was full and bright, painting the night sky a twilight blue. The stars were bright and twinkled sporadically. Cousland watched them for a moment as he got to his feet unsteadily. He looked over to Phillipa's tent and found the other Warden sleeping peacefully.

Closing his eyes for a moment, he breathed in the crisp winter air. Behind the darkness, however, he could feel the dream lurking. He opened his eyes before the panic of the dream infected him once more and decided there would be no sleep for him tonight. He busied himself with checking the traps he had set around the camp in case of attack. Once he was certain everything was in order, he returned to the camp and built up the fire with the small pile of dry wood they had collected.

The night was long and the loneliness from the dream did not abate. His sleeplessness from the previous night only made his need to stay awake all the more difficult. He would do it nonetheless, but the price seemed too steep. With every nod of his head the darkness beckoned.

The heat from the fire was a bare comfort.

* * *

His dark thoughts were given no time to breed on his return to the Keep, for which he was very grateful. He was told that Thrafur, his most trusted ranger, was waiting within Cousland's own study for the man to return. He had news, that was all the information he was given. Phillipa returned to her post on the wall and the stable hand took care of the horses while Cousland hurried to his study.

He gave Thrafur an odd look as he entered, still in the process of divesting himself of his travelling cloak and short swords. The ranger waited patiently until his commander was ready and seated by the roaring fire. Cousland was glad that Thrafur was the man reporting to him, considering the Commander's mood. The ranger was blunt and to the point as a matter of course. Cousland knew that he would be given the information without any hassle.

"You have news for me," Cousland said.

"Yes Commander," despite the eager glint in Thrafur's eyes Cousland detected a hint of hesitation in his voice, "although I'm not sure if you will like what it is I have to tell."

Well doesn't that make a change, Cousland thought sarcastically. Can't anyone bring me good news, just once in a while?

"Spit it out Thrafur," Cousland said gruffly, making the other man sigh but continue as ordered.

"Sir," Thrafur said with weary acceptance, "we've had a report from our outpost near Montfort, the Warden ranger Halfast. It seems that a week ago there was an attack on the city. There was much damage, mainly to the outer wall but also structural damage to other buildings and some injuries, to guards and civilians. The guards reported that a mage was responsible, a man with two allies. The word abomination was thrown around, rather carelessly I think. The templars are also involved."

"Any left alive?" Cousland asked quickly as he processed the information.

"Only one," Thrafur said with a shrug, "but he'll never walk again. They had to amputate at the knees."

Cousland couldn't help but wince. More mage uprisings? It did not surprise him but it didn't mean he had to like it either. The mages of Thedas fought against their bonds as tethered wolves would, snapping and biting and chewing at the ropes which held them. They seemed to have finally realised there could be no peaceful solution, no defining moment of epiphany for the Chantry law to realise its flaws and mistakes, and thus violence was rife. In a way, however, it did give him a guilty sense of hope. Perhaps if the destruction being caused by the rebels worsened, then Orlais would no longer be able to purely focus its attention on Ferelden.

"Did they have any more information to give?" Cousland asked, thinking that the worst of the news was surely over.

"Yes, well..." Thrafur hesitated and looked to the fire before answering, "he couldn't be completely sure but Halfast reported signs of an unidentified Grey Warden in the area during the time of the attack, a sensing which was swiftly lost once the culprits of the attack fled into the Fields of Ghislain. They did not have enough manpower to follow the rogue, especially since they stayed to help with the injured at Montfort."

Cousland felt his hands tightening into fists and purposefully forced himself to relax. A Grey Warden mage? Descriptions of an abomination? It bloody well better not be what I think it is, he thought savagely, because if I find out you've done something this reckless and hasty Anders I'll kill you myself. He hoped that it were not true but it seemed too large a coincidence that a Grey Warden and a mage had caused destruction on a large scale while escaping from templars only a few days ride from where Wynne had met with Anders himself.

"Alright," he said eventually, nodding as he rubbed at his mouth and jaw, "alright. This news is troubling, we must monitor this situation. I need you to keep an ear to the ground for any further mage activity, I don't care how small or insignificant, it all comes to me, understand?"

"Yes Commander," Thrafur said loyally, standing to leave at Cousland's nod.

"Wait," Cousland said suddenly, halting his subordinate in his tracks; Thrafur looked back with curiosity, "I also need you to put feelers out a little closer to home. Who do we have in the Bannorn?"

"We have Leia and her troops," Thrafur said, his brow creasing in a frown.

"And near Highever?" Cousland continued.

"Hannir and Andrew were sent to relieve Howard and Shenna at the outpost due north of Westhill, they are our closest," Thrafur said, his eyes grave as he regarded his superior, "Commander, may I ask what it is we are looking for within our own boundaries?"

"Treason," Cousland said bluntly, knowing that there was no point in hiding his reasons, especially from his rangers; Thrafur's eyebrows rose a fraction but other than that the man did not react, "there have been rumours of dissent between the Teyrns and I mean to either prove or disprove it. I don't want to hear any rumours, I want you to bring me facts, witnesses, documents, conversations, anything _solid_. If it turns out to be nothing then it turns out to be nothing, but this is not something I am willing to leave unchecked and _please_ Thrafur...don't lecture me on the Warden policy of not becoming involved in political affairs."

Thrafur watched him for a moment in silence, unmoving, before cracking the most infinitesimal of smiles.

"You may think of me as only a Grey Warden, Commander, but I am also a Fereldener," he stood proud and straight backed as he continued, "and I protect the King as much as I protect my brothers and sisters. I will see that it is done." He finished with a tight, rough salute across his chest.

"Good," Cousland said returning the salute, nodding in understanding.

You are not alone, he kept repeating to himself, you are not alone in this. Cousland dismissed Thrafur but continued to sit in his study, staring into nothingness while he tried to figure out how to make everything _work_.

 _Sometimes there is no way to force a situation Pup_ , his father used to say, _sometimes you have to sit back and allow the opportunity to come to you._ For once Lien Cousland decided to take his father's advice, despite his growing unease.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from John Donne, one of my favourite poems, 'Batter my Heart, three-personed God'


	5. All Hail the King (part 1)

The rookery was musty and cold, half lit in burnt orange light castoff from the sunset. The sounds of cooing and squawking were oddly comforting, but for Cousland the wait for a reply outweighed any reassurance the animals around him could bring. The flap of wings settled to roost made his eyes spring vainly to the sky every time, searching for the message he so desperately sought.

Warm breath met chill air, drifting clouds of milky breath vented out of the window. Cold stone beneath his hands. Fingers flexed, allowing fingernails to scrape against the rock. The motion sent an involuntary shiver up his spine.

All of which seemed disconnected from his being, from his thoughts, numb and broken. He stared out over the courtyard below him, mainly empty but for two Wardens patrolling the grounds and Temmerin in his workshop making preparations. He could vaguely make out the dozens of tramping feet from within the Keep as new recruits, Wardens and veterans alike made ready to depart.

For such a peaceful scene to be before me, Cousland thought, it seems inconceivable. A calm before the storm.

For the storm would come.

He would bring it to them.

* * *

_Two and a half weeks earlier..._

"We have a Grey Warden in trouble and that is all that concerns me at this moment," Cousland said stonily, "I do _not_ have to report to you on this matter."

He should have known that snooping around in other Warden Commanders' domains would get him caught at some point, but did it really have to be at such an inconvenient time? The Orlesian Commander's aide had appeared at Vigil's Keep that morning, outfitted in what seemed to be his best ceremonial armour and arrogant attitude. He informed Cousland that there had been reports of information being passed to Ferelden out with official channels, to which Cousland had replied caustically that he hadn't been aware that Warden business was meant to be so strictly monitored between countries.

The conversation had dissolved in a downward spiral from there. The crux of the matter was finally reached after forty minutes of passive aggressiveness from the aide and barely constrained anger from Cousland. When they finally reached it, Cousland could have screamed in frustration.

"Commander DuLac believes that you have information on a rogue Warden which you are obtaining from our own Wardens without permission," the aide said tightly.

"Well Dulac can bloody well prove it for all I care!" Cousland said hastily, biting his tongue to stop himself from saying anything else; the aide watched with narrowed eyes as Cousland composed himself, "look, this isn't getting us anywhere. Even if I _was_ tracking the man you insinuate that I am, he is one of _my_ men. I would expect some courtesy in respects to our borders."

"As would we," the aide said frostily; yes, well, I never did say I was a diplomat, Cousland thought.

He knew that he was losing this fight against the man standing before him. He wished for the nine thousandth time that Nathaniel Howe was still on post in Vigil's Keep and not at Wiesshaupt. The Free Marcher always had a better manner about him when dealing with officials. Lien knew he was hopeless but, unfortunately, in this situation knowing was _not_ half the battle; it was a measly, insignificant measure which amounted to nothing more than self humiliation.

"If we are quite done here?" Cousland said stonily.

"Not by a long shot," the aide replied with a smile which did not reach his eyes; nevertheless Cousland's cue, and perhaps the extensive time they had spent arguing, motivated the man to leave.

The Commander couldn't have been happier. Although he knew that the reprieve would be short lived. Commander DuLac was nothing if he wasn't pertinacious and Cousland knew that next time, if he was very unlucky and the situation worsened, he would find _DuLac_ in his study, grilling him for information.

"I swear Anders, the number of times I've stuck my neck out for you..." Cousland muttered under his breath, screwing up a scrap piece of paper between his fingers, just to give them something to do, "you are going to owe me your indentured servitude for the rest of time as payment."

Returning to the comfort of his chambers should have been calming, and yet the messages left upon his table only furthered the tension in his shoulders, his back, in his mind. The royal seal stared at him, glittering in the candlelight as if beckoning him to break it. Cousland glared back, feeling the rising anger it created threaten to overthrow his well rehearsed antipathy. He grabbed the letter and stuffed it into his satchel, pulling the strap shut and closing the buckle.

* * *

"I'm actually impressed," Cousland said, ignoring Meris's frown, "are you sure it will work?"

"Oh no, I'm not sure at all," Meris drawled in an infuriating monotone, "in fact I'd love _nothing_ more than to try a volatile, untested potion on some unsuspecting new recruit and see what random event occurs."

Cousland started at the other man critically while the pot above the fire bubbled ominously.

"No need for sarcasm," Cousland said tightly; the last thing he needed now was Meris's 'wit'.

"Who was being sarcastic?" Meris said with a shrug, making Cousland do a double take before shaking his head and trying to ignore the statement, "but alas the new recruits you hired are a slippery bunch. No one wants to volunteer for my experiment, no matter if I tell them the benefits of increased strength and stamina. Who knows, perhaps witnessing the grisly deaths of their friends at the Joining has made them skittish."

"Shut your mouth Meris," Cousland growled, his fiery temper rising at a moment's notice; Meris's morbid humour was not appreciated in so personal and touchy an area, "or I'll test the fucking potion on you myself, are we clear?"

"...Perfectly," Meris said after a short hesitation; the mage sighed as he pushed the potion, thick and syrupy, around the pot with a long metal ladle.

Cousland heard the echoing of booted feet descending the stairs and inwardly thanked whoever it was for hopefully extricating him from this rather awkward conversation. Or he would have been, if the news hadn't been so dire.

"Thrafur," Cousland said, turning to look towards the ranger as he strode across the hall purposefully, "what's the hurry my friend?"

"Commander, I must speak with you, immediately," Thrafur said without preamble, his dark eyes stern beneath heavy brows.

Cousland simply nodded in reply. The bad feeling which had been growing in his mind since his visit to Denerim two weeks before was merely heightened by the man's no nonsense urgency. Cousland nodded a terse farewell to Meris before marching off, close at the ranger's heels. He had expected the man to head for Cousland's own personal study but, worryingly, he merely stopped at the other end of Meris's long, low hall and turned. Cousland jerked to a halt and stared into a set of dark eyes.

"We've had sightings of Darkspawn, Commander," he said without preamble.

"Where?" Cousland frowned; this wasn't entirely impressive news to say the least, but it had his attention.

"Orzammar," Thrafur replied, fishing in his heavy jacket while Cousland looked on, still perplexed by the man's urgency.

"Well, I'm glad you informed me but that hardly seems like a..." Cousland started with a frown.

"They attacked the city, Commander," Thrafur interrupted heatedly; Cousland's confusion snapped to alert, "they slaughtered the Legion's soldiers who stood guard and swarmed the city."

"How...how many dead?" the Commander asked, the hesitation in his speech testament to his sheer amazement.

"I'm not sure, we haven't had accurate reports as of yet," Thrafur said, shaking his dark head, "we were told by Farah from the Western front of the attack. The Darkspawn were subdued but it was an arduous fight, she said. The dwarves were taken by surprise and...Commander..." Thrafur hesitated, his always hard eyes seeming suddenly unsure. Cousland nodded to him curtly, an order to continue as well as an encouragement, "Commander, the dwarves who quelled the fighting, they said that the Darkspawn were acting in unimaginable ways."

"How so?" Cousland asked in a hushed tone, already dreading what he would hear.

"They spoke," Thrafur said.

* * *

It was three days hard ride to Orzammar, three days of forcing the horses to gallop for hour upon hour until the poor beasts' lungs wheezed with worrying, high pitched whinnies and their skin shone with sweat even in the frozen cold. The dull, monotonous thudding of hooves against the road, against rock, against peat, drummed itself into Cousland's consciousness. He barely slept at camp while his three companions, all senior Wardens, snored beneath their blankets by the fire. He ate only what was necessary and focused solely on reaching the site of the attack, deep within the bowels of the earth.

It was late evening on the third day when they arrived, weather beaten and cold. The mountain had not been kind.

"We did not expect you this soon Commander," the blonde Warden Farah said with gracious surprise as Cousland and his men led their horses up the thick, stone steps of the grand entrance to the dwarven city.

She stood amongst a ragtag group of exhausted Wardens and grim dwarves, one of which Cousland was sure he recognised from his previous visits to Orzammar. Cousland dispensed with the pleasantries not only because he was tired or anxious but mainly because, above all, he needed to know.

"Your name is Farah?" Cousland said quickly, gesturing to the blonde Warden; she inclined her head respectfully but he hurried on, "have someone put these horses to stable and see that my men are given hot food. I want whoever saw the most of the attack to tell me everything."

It was a grim tale, delivered by a severe faced dwarf and a young, pale face boy of a Grey Warden who didn't look old enough to even be recruited. Cousland had found himself led to a low ceilinged ante-chamber in the Diamond Quarter which had, unsurprisingly, suffered the least trauma from the attack. Even his quick march through the streets hadn't stopped Cousland from seeing the pale and vivid red blood stains on the ornate stone, or the wretched black of Darkspawn blood mingled with it.

The boy spoke sparsely and, when he did, it was either mumbled or rife with stops and starts. Cousland found himself warring with his own frustration simply so he could coax information from him. It turned out the boy's name was Harold, a Warden recruit who had been stationed near Orzammar under Farah's command. He had been sent to Orzammar, along with a senior Warden, to deliver a message from the Western Wardens and had arrived at a truly unfortunate time. The senior Warden had been killed in the fight, leaving the boy to fend for himself.

Thankfully the dwarf, whose name was Grummod, was far more forthcoming and stable minded. He introduced himself as the King's aide. When Cousland inquired if he could speak with the king, he was told amiably but summarily that he was far too busy dealing with the fallout from the attack to speak to anyone. Considering Cousland had supported Lord Harrowmont to the kingship he found it no real surprise that King Bhelen, his successor after Harrowmont was murdered, did not make him a top priority. Still, it seemed too petty even for Bhelen to hold grudges at a time of crisis such as this.

"They struck at _kard_ ," the dwarf said, clarifying himself when he noticed Cousland's unfamiliarity with the word, "midnight. Just before the change of the guard. It seemed, I mean...before all of this I would have believed it a coincidence that they attacked just as the Legion of the Dead were at their most tired, but after the things I saw that day it would not surprise me if it was planned that way."

"Are you talking of their ability to speak?" Cousland asked, receiving a curt nod in reply. The Commander already knew it was coming and yet the news still made him cold on the inside. Not since the incident with the Mother and the Architect had he heard of Darkspawn with the wherewithal to acquire language, "Did they all speak?"

"No," Harold spoke up, his haunted eyes still downcast, "no, it was just one."

"I've never seen Darkspawn follow a leader before," Grummod continued when the boy fell silent, "only ever under an archdemon do they follow any sort of order, but this time...it was as if the one that spoke was commanding them. They were deadly, efficient, not the mindless, brawling monsters we are used to outside of a Blight. At first I thought it was just hisses, roars, but it was as I grew closer to it that I realised I _recognised_ the words coming out of its filthy mouth."

"What did it say?" Cousland asked.

"It was commanding its troops to kill everyone," Grummod said sombrely, "I didn't hear more than that."

"I did," Harold said nervously, "I heard it!"

"Calm down Warden," Cousland said commandingly, trying his best to snap the boy out of his hysteria with harsh treatment rather than soft; thankfully it seemed to work and the boy's wild eyes blinked rapidly before lowering once more to the ground.

"I heard it," Harold repeated wearily, "it killed Beorh, my companion, and I heard what it said. Beorh, he was only protecting me, and all I could do was listen as it gutted him. It called itself the First, and it said we were only the beginning."

* * *

Two days passed without the sunlight to guide his eyes. Cousland fell into the malaise of what the Wardens liked to refer to as the Road's Shadow. Those who spent any length of time in the Deep Roads could attest to the mental lethargy and growing sense of paranoia and claustrophobia that could crawl beneath one's skin there. The same could be said of Orzammar, despite its more homely appeal. Without the passage of the sun to rely upon, Cousland could feel his body ticking out of synchronicity with the world.

Even over the two days he and the other Wardens spent closed beneath the earth, trying their best to resolve the issues that had arisen in the great dwarven city, trying to organise parties of Wardens and Legion soldiers alike to traverse down into the Deep Roads beneath the city and find some answers to the riddle which had resurfaced days before in the shape of one calling itself The First.

' _...and it said we were only the beginning'_

The words ran circles in Cousland's mind. He could not stand the thought of another Blight, not in his lifetime. The horrors which he had left behind him were at least merely memories of a haunted past, or so he had thought. What faced him now was the looming spectre of death, come to mock his over confidence. Orzammar always lived in the shadow of the Deep Roads but the Darkspawn knew their place. There hadn't been an organized raid upon the Dawrven city since the Blight and, even then, the Darkspawn had still been essentially beasts. Not the unnatural, semi-intelligent Spawn which had acted out the latest attrocities.

His overconfidence in letting the Darkspawn, who had survived the attack on Amaranthine all those years ago, run off into the wild. His moment of mercy, for a being who had begged for it, now seemed to be painted up the walls of Orzammar. A sign left in innocent blood. Cousland cursed himself even as he hoped beyond hope that he was wrong, that this was _not_ his fault.

King Bhelen eventually deigned to see him but the meeting was brief and did not further their enterprise more than having the King's behest to send the Legion of the Dead into the Deep Roads. Eventually, at the unseen sunrise of the third day, the search parties were ready.

"I wish I could go with you my friends," Cousland said severely as he patted one of his companions upon the shoulder, a Warden named Garreth whose prowess with the bow was unparalleled in Ferelden; Garreth simply grinned in reply, never one to be downhearted.

"Don't worry Commander," he said, "we'll save plenty for you."

The sentiment was one of humour and yet jollity was as sparse as sunlight in Orzammar that day. Cousland did not like sending his troops off to do battles that he could rightly take part in. It did not seem right and he hated to do it. I should be there to protect him, he thought, I should be there to watch their backs. Yet here he was, almost too important for his own role. The Commander of the Grey would never be allowed to risk himself on such a paltry mission during a time of crisis. Cousland hated bureaucracy and it was never more evident why he hated it than as he watched his men and the dwarves of the Legion swallowed into the darkness of the Deep Roads, the doors closing with a heavy clang behind them.

For him nothing awaited other than the long road back to Vigil's Keep, accompanied only by the young Warden who had survived the attack. Cousland had talked with Farah before she too descended into the unknown of the Deep Roads. He had agreed to take Harold back to Amarathine where he would be cared for until the parties returned from their expedition and Harold could be taken back under the tutelage of his superior. Despite the boy's constant quiet and nervous glances Cousland wished he would have been allowed to return alone. The First Warden would have to be informed of all new developments before any authorised force could be used.

They stuck to the coast, leading them away from the Bannorn and allowing them to skirt unnoticed back to Vigil's Keep. Cousland may have been solely focused on the current situation, difficult not to be, but he wasn't distracted enough to forget that the Bannorn was still under suspicion. He would rather stay away from unfamiliar territory and stick closer to Highever; he knew the woods around his old home better than the back of his hand.

Unfortunate that tragedy was to repeat itself on such familiar, blood soaked ground.

* * *

The camp was small and solemn. Harold said little and only ever when spoken to. The fire burned in the darkness like a pitiful beacon. Cousland stared at it, listening to the snapping of hot twigs and the blurred roar as the wind shook the flames.

It isn't your fault, he told himself. That darkspawn could have come from anywhere. It could be have been any of the other bizarre and mutated intelligent Spawn which they had come across in that dark time when Anders had still been free and Nathaniel had not yet grown to trust him. It seemed so very long ago and yet somehow, after the recent events, closer than ever. The very thought of another hideous abomination such as the thing which had called itself 'Mother' arriving in this world made Cousland shiver. The rank broodmother which birthed Darkspawn under her own perverse philosophy, something he wished never to see again.

Yet it did not seem as unreasonable an explanation as blaming his own stupidity in a moment of moral misjudgement. Which would turn out to be the correct verdict, however, was still tearing at his mind. Cousland bit into the cooked leg of the rabbit which he had caught earlier and chewed morosely. Harold curled up under his bedroll and tried to sleep. Cousland knew that he didn't mainly by the silent shaking of the boy's shoulder as he tried to weep in silence.

Cousland pitied him as much as he envied him his innocence.

It wasn't the sound of a scream, or the hideous wailing of Darkspawn, but a high pitched sound, somehow familiar and unfamiliar, that rent the air, causing Harold to scurry from his bedroll in a panic and Cousland to start up from the rock upon which he had been sitting. The eerie silence that followed the sound was almost worse than the sound itself.

"Wh-what was that?" Harold stuttered, "Commander?"

"Quiet," Cousland hissed, drawing his short sword in his right hand and his curved dagger in his left; what had it been? Cousland wasn't sure. If he had to guess he would say that it was a horse but the sound was so mutilated and disturbing that, if it _was_ a horse, he hoped to the Black that whatever killed it didn't come looking for them.

The firelight illuminated only the trees surrounding the small clearing in which they camped, forming a barrier against the darkness. The darkness itself loomed behind them, unknown and menacing. There! Cousland snapped to the right as twigs cracked and foliage broke. He heard Harold gasp and scuffle against the dirt and once more told the boy to hush. The sound died away only to be replaced by the same sound but this time amplified. He could hear dogs barking. Cousland looked to the new noise, the sound of something large, or perhaps many things, crashing through the undergrowth.

He tightened his grip on his weapons. The sound was drawing closer. He could feel something approaching them. Harold was of no use to him now, he knew that. He would have to protect them both. The smaller sound cracked and splintered its way through the forest until it was upon them. Cousland leapt before the fire, his weapons raised to confront the beast with the light in its eyes.

The sight before him, as it broke into the clearing, was not at all what he had expected. The woman recoiled when she saw his drawn sword, crying out and trying to scurry backwards across the dirt.

"Whoa! Wait!" Cousland said in desperation as she tried to flee; he dropped his weapons to the floor and ran to catch her before she rushed back into the darkness, "I won't hurt you, wait!"

The woman screamed when he grabbed her by the arms but she did not fight. It was dark and her face was obscured by the shadow, dirty and streaked with tears her hair flew about her face. Yet as they gazed upon each other's faces they seemed to know one another. Cousland couldn't believe what he was looking at.

"Teyrna Cousland?" he uttered in disbelief.

"Oh my Lord," she sobbed, a grotesque smile creasing her grief stricken face, "Why are you here? You have to help me! Please, you have to stop them!"

There was no time to comprehend what was afoot. The loud sound which Cousland had heard mimicking that of the Teyrna crashing through the forest made its appearance. Cousland turned, with the Teyrna pulled close to him, and bore witness to the four men and two snarling mabari which they were faced with. He would not be enough. What in Thedas was happening here?

"You, what do you think you're doin'?" one of the men barked, "Get your hands off of her ladyship!"

"I could ask you the same thing," Cousland said back sternly, glancing down at his discarded weapons with a feeling of devastated frustration, "it seems to me that she does not want to be found by you. Harold! Get up boy, for Maker's sake!"

At the sight of the four large men and slavering warhounds Harold had stayed in his place, shivering by the fire, his eyes alight with nothing but fear. Fuck, Cousland thought savagely, fuck what the shitting hell is going on? Who _are_ these men? As he squared off to them, keeping the weeping Teyrna as close as he could while he tried to figure a way out of this mess, the distinct sound of hoof beats began to ring in the murky wood.

"Who are you? What do you want with this woman?" Cousland demanded, all too aware that if any more reinforcements arrived that he would be insurmountably outnumbered; how far is it to Highever? He thought desperately, If I can get us to Fergus then he'll protect us all, but how? Thoughts of stealing the approaching horse flitted through his mind.

"She's coming with us, the Master said we weren't to let her go," the tallest of the four goons replied, "slipped us a sleeping potion didn't you, little whore? Thought that'd work, eh?"

"Watch your tongue, pig," Cousland snarled, "if you don't care to lose it."

"Oh, fucking tough bloke eh?" the first goon spoke up once more; the hoof beats drew closer and the tension rose in Cousland's body, "wonderful. That's all we need. Look, just give us the woman and we'll have no more to quarrel about..."

"Don't bother," Cousland said tersely, trying his best to manoeuvre himself and they Teyrna round towards his discarded weapons, "if you think I'm just another 'tough bloke' then maybe you'd like to try your luck against a Grey Warden, _mate_."

The slight paling of their faces might have been amusing if, at that moment, the cavalry hadn't arrived. Cousland recognised the horse before he recognised the owner, a tall, proud, chocolate coloured stallion with a perfect white diamond upon its forehead; Cousland had always called the horse Diamond, no matter that Fergus named it Maric after the Royal throne.

"Fergus!" Lien couldn't help but exclaim, loosening his grasp on the Teyrna in astonishment; it had been along time since he had been so delighted to see his brother but, just like old times, his older brother was riding to the rescue. The how and the why, for a split second, did not seem to matter, "What in the blazes are you doing here?"

His brother's face was the picture of surprise, eyes wide and bearded mouth agape. Yet, as the eyes lost their surprise only to be replaced by their usual hardness, and the mouth snapped shut into its normal thin line, the sudden euphoria Lien had felt at the sight of his older brother began to waver. It broke altogether when the Teyrna, instead of running to her husband, screamed anew, breaking from Cousland's loose hold and turning to run blindly back into the forest. The Commander was thrown off balance by her sudden surge into the undergrowth and spun round only in time to see the tails of her dress disappearing into the darkness. He opened his mouth to call after her but, all at once, everything happened.

He heard the movement from behind him, he heard the voices call out.

"I don't want them harmed," said Fergus's voice.

Followed swiftly by...

"Commander look out!" Harold's young, tremulous voice called out.

He almost knew the blow was coming before it hit but he was in no state to avoid it. Exhausted, drained, confused, lost and betrayed, Lien Cousland slammed face first into the dirt and pine needles on the cold ground, his head spinning and the air knocked from his lungs. He struggled to push up onto feeble arms, his whole body shaking with effort and a sick feeling at the pit of his stomach. This isn't happening! He was screaming to himself. Dear Maker, _please_..!

The second blow ended all thought.

* * *


	6. All Hail the King (part 2)

He heard the voices before he was fully aware of what was happening. The warmth around him was tantalisingly sonorous. He felt heavy and tired. There was a distinct and confusing lack of pain.

"He will be fine," a female voice was saying gently, "it's just a small cut. Maybe a concussion."

"I said not to harm them!" Fergus' distinctive gruff voice, deep with anger, hovered somewhere above him.

"Sorry m'lord," another said, sounding scared and contrite, "but he said he was a Grey Warden. We didn't want to take any..."

"Enough of your apologies," Fergus growled, "I want you and your men patrolling the perimeter but do _not_ engage anyone you see. I will not have this entire operation botched by your incompetence."

He heard the trampling of feet and the closing of doors. The light-headedness began to fade, replaced by a stinging sensation behind his eyelids. There was a growing sense of foreboding, deep in the pit of his stomach. He needed to stand, he needed to go, he needed to leave. Something was very wrong here but the dimness in his mind that sat beneath the encompassing darkness clouded his insight.

Cousland experimentally tried to lift his hand but found his limbs leaden and weak, his breathing slow and soft. He felt as if he were under water, growing closer to the surface with every moment. The voices seemed to hesitate as he stirred.

"You did not want him harmed?" the female voice asked, warily curious, "Why?"

Sometimes silences said more than words ever could. Lien Cousland forced his eyes open, blinking them against the soft candlelight, lambent in the gloom. Fergus' shaky figure appeared before him, his deep brown eyes staring back at him. For a sickening moment he felt an acute sense of déjà vu; of a long forgotten time, a fall from a tree, waking up inside the castle with his older brother crouched over his limp form, his eyes alight with worry.

Everything seemed so unimaginably different now.

"Because he's my brother," Fergus said simply.

* * *

Fergus left before Lien found the wherewithal to form coherent speech. The woman who had been talking with his brother remained and continued to treat him. Cousland felt a niggling prick of doubt as he realised just how she was treating the small wound he could feel on his left temple.

"You're a mage," he slurred out as the light blue glow focused on his face forced him to shut his eyes.

"And you are observant, Commander," she said soberly but with such overt sarcasm that it was hard to tell how she wanted the statement to be taken.

"You know who I am?" he asked.

"I doubt there is a free mage in Ferelden who does not know your face," she said, stopping her healing touch long enough for Cousland to open his eyes and look at her properly; she was older than her voice suggested, greying black hair swept back from an aquiline face and sharp blue eyes, "considering how hard you fought to free us."

"I..." Cousland didn't understand what was happening, so much so that, combined with his concussion, he was finding it increasingly difficult to think; he closed his mouth and forced himself to concentrate, "what is going on here? Why was I attacked?"

"Your brother seems to care for you a great deal," the woman said, "I think you should be grateful for that."

"Answer my question," Cousland growled, narrowing his eyes, "I have no time for games. You have attacked and imprisoned a Grey Warden Commander, do you really think that no one will miss my return? Where is my companion, where is the boy?"

"No one will come to harm," the woman said as she walked away from the bed upon which he was lying, towards a tall door set into the heavy stone wall, "it is perhaps fortuitous that you will be kept from the fighting. It would wound Lord Cousland greatly to lose you."

"Fighting? What fighting? What is happening? Tell me!" Cousland shouted, "For Maker's sake Fergus! What have you done? Fergus!"

The cries were futile. His brother was either long gone or deaf to his pleas. The mage slipped from the room as Cousland tried his best to struggle from the heavy, hay stuffed mattress, his arms shaking with effort. The lock clicked loudly as she turned the key, sealing him within the small room. There was something inside of him, something causing this weakness, something beyond the effects of his knock to the head. He felt nauseous when he finally pushed up into a sitting position.

Fighting? What was this? Operation? Fergus...dear Maker Fergus what have you planned? Cousland thought, panicking. His mind was alight with the sparse information he had gathered on the rumours of the Bannorn and Highever alike. A plot, secret schemes in the night, amassing troops. Cousland felt sick. This couldn't be the reason, there must be something else.

"Guard!" he shouted as strongly as he could manage, clutching his stomach as he tried to force his unresponsive legs over the edge of the bed, "Guard, I need to speak to my brother!"

The candlelight flickered noisily in an unseen draught. The room began to spin. Cousland knew something was wrong as soon as he forced himself up from the mattress. The bile shot into his throat, the meagre contents of his stomach retching from his mouth, disgusting, bitter acid and half digested rabbit. The world tilted and shook and then suddenly he could not see. All he could feel was himself falling. He did not feel himself hit the ground.

The world seemed to expand outwards, away from himself, creating a cavernous darkness all around him. He cried out but nothing seemed to react, not even the dead air around him carried his screams. What is happening to me? He thought brokenly. Dear Maker, please, if you hear me...I beg of you do not let this happen. I have asked you for many things during my life but if you are to take anything I say to heart, let it be this.

Dear Maker, _save him_.

* * *

The next time he awoke, the first thing he tried to do was move his legs.

To his irritation he found them bound, as were his wrists. The air felt different in this room, cooler and drier. He opened his eyes and the sight made his breath stall in his lungs.

The last time he had stared at the ceiling that now appeared above him he had been awoken by the sound of Shadow barking and the faint smell of smoke and blood. He looked to his left cautiously and swallowed the feeling of bitter memories as he took in the sight of his own bedroom in castle Highever. Disturbingly, nothing seemed to have changed.

The castle crest still hung upon the walls, upon a slightly tattered tapestry. As did the shield his father had given him, something he had thought lost. Where did Fergus find it..? Lien wondered in his sleep addled mind, before everything snapped back into place.

The attack. The mage. _Fergus_...

When he sat up this time the sick feeling no longer assaulted him. Instead the only dangerous feelings he found within himself were induced by the sight of Fergus Cousland sitting at the right side of his bed. Without thought to his predicament Lien lunged at him. Despite the chains holding his younger brother to the bed, Fergus recoiled in both surprise and what seemed to be a jolt of fear, perhaps at the savageness of the movement.

"Do not try and test your bonds," Fergus said as calmly as he could while Lien struggled against the heavy chains, linked to the strong wooden posts of the bed, "they are quite secure."

"You should think yourself lucky that they are! Maker damn you Fergus!" Lien spat, making his brother's eyes narrow.

"I see that you have your spirit back at least," he said dryly.

"Don't play games with me you bastard," Lien growled, his eyes fierce, "what is the meaning of this attack. Where is Harold? Where is your _wife_? Tell me the fucking truth, you coward!"

"I am no coward, little brother," Fergus said, still sitting stately in his chair, as if untouchable, "I am desperate, and it is you and your...friend who have pushed me to this."

Everything felt suddenly colder. Somehow, all of the supposition and rumour aside, Lien had hoped that it had all been an over exaggeration of Ban Teagan's, or a misinterpretation of events, or...anything but the truth of the matter. Anything but that. For a short moment the fight drained from Lien's body and he felt the helpless need to plead with his brother as he had always done when he wanted to bend Fergus to his will when they were boys. Desperation drove him even as the passion left him.

"...Tell me it isn't true Fergus," the words came out as a harsh whisper, yet still loud in the silence of the room, his eyes wide as he stared at his impassive brother, "please, for the Maker's sake tell me you're not..!"

"Not what, Lien?" Fergus interrupted, " _Not_ going to save this country from itself? _Not_ going to rectify the biggest blunder Ferelden has ever seen by putting that fool of a puppet on the throne?"

" _No_ ," Lien couldn't help but moan in despair, "you can't, you can't _do_ this! Think of what you're doing Fergus, I beg you!"

"Do not think you can sway me," Fergus shook his head and let his shoulders slump, "it's too late for that now. Everything is too late. You were the last thing I expected to find in the forest this night little brother but...perhaps this is for the best. I can keep you safe here. I know what you say that you _feel_ for that man but it would only put you in harm's way."

"Stop and listen to what you're saying Fergus..!" Lien tried to talk over his brother, all the while trying desperately and fruitlessly to loosen his bonds.

"My wife thinks as you do, that's why I must keep her here, keep you all away from this bloody mess," Fergus said, his voice heavy with the weight of one who carries a great burden.

"...this isn't you, you would never do such a thing!" Lien continued regardless, hearing the growing franticness in his voice, "I know you Fergus, you're a loyal man! You know this is wrong, so stop it before..!"

"You, my wife and my son are all that matter to me," Fergus continued, "and I will not let that fool of a King be manoeuvred into the Orlesian's pockets so they can steal our country out from under us and plunge us back into the servitude they all desire."

"This is madness! This is madness and you know it!" Lien shouted in terrible frustration, the clinking of the chains growing in his ears, the metal cuffs beginning to cut into his skin.

"I did not help drive the Darkspawn from our land just to hand it over to a new set of invaders, no matter how subtle they think their marriage proposal may be," Fergus stood up as he spoke, making Lien's blood run both frozen and molten, "the mages will stand with us and we will all be free, no matter the cost."

"You fool! You fucking fool!" Lien roared as Fergus began walking towards the door; the helplessness he felt was almost debilitating, enough to make his mind swim with disbelief at the situation, "You doom us all! You can't do this Fergus, I won't let you! You have to stop this!"

His words seemed to have no impact. Fergus opened the familiar, thick wooden door and the sound of tramping feet could be heard from beyond it. Lien considered calling out for help but the act seemed just as futile as trying to play to his brother's reason or emotion. He kicked and pulled and hated and raged. Fergus looked back at him with a terrible look of pity.

"The troops have already left. It's too late to stop this now," he said unsurely, "I...I wanted to make sure you were alright..."

"Fuck you," Lien said back harshly, his voice filled with choked emotion, "you can go to the Black for all I care! Maker...you know what this means. You know and yet you've done it anyway. I love him Fergus."

His brother frowned at the words, his eyes growing darker and yet the pity still shone through.

"If you kill him then you kill me," Lien said, his voice dark with unbound malice, "and I swear Fergus I will not rest until everyone responsible has _paid_. Do you understand me?"

Fergus did not even hesitate. He simply looked at his brother one final time and then closed the door behind him, seemingly unmoved by Lien's shocked visage or his cries.

"Fergus! Fergus, dear Maker don't do this! Fergus!" Lien's throat grew pained and raw, his own cries reverberating in the small, stone room.

Everything began to spiral into a delirium.

"Fergus, I'll kill you, you fucking bastard, I'll kill you! Do you hear me?"

The impossibility of the development overwhelmed him.

"I won't let you kill him! I won't let you do this!"

* * *

Without a window he could not tell how long he lay there. He could not tell how long he screamed for his brother, how long he spent trying to futilely break free from his impenetrable bonds. How long it was before everything grew still and quiet and the panic in his chest became unbearable.

Oh Maker, oh Maker. This is not true.

I'll find a way out of here, I'll find a way out and I'll ride to Denerim and...

It can't be.

This can't be.

 _Alistair_...

Time seemed to slip by strangely. People entered and he tried to fight, he tried to deny himself the food they offered, the water. He begged with them to let him free. He cursed them as they left him. He had no idea how long it had been. There has to be a way out, he thought feverishly, there _has_ to be.

When the door opened that one final time he was barely aware of it. When he looked up he once again found the last person he expected to see.

"Teyrna," he whispered as she closed the door.

She looked less distraught than he had seen her however long ago it had been since she ran terrified into their camp, less dirty and hysterical. Still, her eyes seemed haunted by something, perhaps despair, perhaps betrayal. Lien wondered if it was mirrored in his own stare. She seemed to gaze at him as if it were.

"Fergus is gone," she said a little dreamily, "I'm not sure if I...I mean it's..."

"Please, can you help me?" Lien jumped straight to the chase, never one to give up hope, "Let me go and I won't tell them I had your help, I'll just..."

"Do you not think that was my plan already?" the Teyrna said, sounding a little put out, "Who do you think it was that sent the guards at the door to sleep?"

The guards at the door. That's a good fucking point, Lien thought, she must have sneaked in here, she must have...wait. This is no coincidence, Cousland thought. His mind may have been distraught but he was not dull witted enough to miss such a connection.

"How did you get them to sleep?" Cousland asked, looking at the woman's eyes, misty with some unknown emotion.

"I used a spell of course," she said simply, confirming Lien's suspicions without him having to truly try.

Oh Fergus, Cousland thought as he closed his eyes in despair. Fergus you fool. His wife was a mage. It did not justify his brother's actions but it did clarify them, at least a little. And if the mother is a mage, then perhaps...

"Your son too," Cousland said.

"Yes," the Teyrna replied, twisting something within her fingers, "my little Olias. Just a few months ago he started showing. I'm...I'm not sure if I was proud or not, I..."

Her forehead contorted in a frown while her lips quivered in a smile. Cousland took a deep breath and tried to contain himself. I have to get out of here. Perhaps there is still time. There is still time to save them. Still time to save him.

"Please my Lady," he said seriously, "I need your help. I swear to you that no harm will come to you or your son, not while I am living, I _would_ _not_ allow that. You have my word."

"Fergus just wanted to protect his family," she said, the first tears creeping from her eyes as she spoke, "if Orlais came here, if the Chantry came back...but what he and the other Lords have planned, it isn't right. They're going to ambush them, Fergus said the King will be visiting the people of Denerim, walking the city with a host of bodyguards but he'll be vulnerable, he'll...you can stop them, can't you?"

With shaking hands she revealed the key, heavy and silver, which she hesitantly slid into the lock of the large cuff holding Cousland in place on the bed. As soon as the lock clicked open Cousland freed his hand and, with terrible determination, grabbed the key and began hastily freeing his other limbs. The Teyrna let out a stifled sob and sat down weakly on the bed.

"Don't hurt him, he was only trying to look after us," she said, hand to her mouth, "he loves you so much, he didn't want to..."

"Stay here," Cousland said, barely able to contain the fury which rose at the thought of Fergus performing any of this hideous scheme in an attempt to protect him, "and don't move."

"I tried to stop him but he wouldn't _listen_ to me, he wouldn't..." she carried on, her voice raising.

Cousland acted quickly, his heart hammering in his chest at the thought of wasting a single second of his time. He rushed to her side of the bed and knelt in front of her, taking the woman's shaking hands. He stared into her beautiful, tear stained face.

"Lady Allison," the use of her name seemed to garner some attention from her; Lien smiled as best he could as she watched him, "I swear that I will not hurt Fergus. I promise you."

She nodded, again and again, as if more of an automatic reaction than any sort of confirmation. Cousland leaned in and kissed her cheek softly, whispering as he did.

' _Thank you_ '

The guards at the door were indeed asleep, but Lien knew better than to think that Fergus had taken all of the castle's defences with him. Thankfully he knew the castle's passageways by heart. He started along the corridor which led towards the inner courtyard. I have to get to the stables without being seen, he thought with a seriousness bred of desperation. To get there I have to...

...go upstairs to mother's old chambers. Then climb the vine outside her window to reach the roof. Then I can jump to the wall, then down onto the top of the stables...

He was running before he knew it, his feet making no sound on the stone floor. He had been stripped of his weapons but Lien knew that he was the best weapon he could ever have in this situation. Not that he wouldn't have liked the familiar weight of his sword and dagger at his sides, but beggars couldn't be choosers.

The first guard went down silently, his neck broken. Lien had crept up on him from the end of the corridor and, before the man had a time to react to any noise, there were a pair of calloused hands around his face and then he was dead. Cousland pulled his body urgently back into the shadows before checking around the corner he had been guarding. The stairs leading up to what had been his mother's quarters were clear. He ascended them stealthily and thankfully found no more resistance between himself and the room, which was thankfully unlocked and empty. Everything was going as he had quickly planned it.

Until he reached the window and found no vine.

"You have to be fucking kidding me," he spat in anger; he slapped his right hand against the stone windowsill and growled in frustration, furiously rethinking his plan; I have to...

...down the stairs, through the concourse, into the scullery and out through the kitchens, the same way he had escaped with Duncan that same fateful day...

It was a sickening thought but, at a time like this, there was no time for thinking on previous tragedy. He had to act and act _now_.

He should not have rushed. Everything was fine until he burst into the scullery only to find three guards rummaging through a barrel of apples, laughing and joking with each other. For an awkward moment no one moved or spoke; Lien stared at them and they stared at Lien. Then everyone started to move at once.

"Shit, he's trying to escape!" one shouted

"Get him, quick!" the other ordered.

The last simply drew his sword and lunged. Not the smartest move in the book considering Lien was an expert of hand to hand combat. The man came straight for him, ahead of his comrades who had wasted time shouting before drawing their weapons, and quickly overstepped as he swung his heavy broadsword. Lien took advantage of this by stepping to his right while the man swung clumsily past him and hit the wooden door, splintering the thick wood with a thud. While he was stuck Lien reached forwards and deftly pulled the man's side dagger from his belt, reached up and stabbed the guard in the throat. He felt the arterial blood spurt out over his face but did not flinch as the man fell gurgling to the floor.

The others, who had been rushing to their comrade's aid, seemed appalled by this, stopping in their rush and instead holding back. Whether it was at the ruthlessness of his attack or the efficiency Lien did not know, or care. These men were in his way. They had sided with Fergus and they had made their choice. Lien turned to face them, readjusting the dagger in his hand.

One opened his mouth to speak, but Lien gave him no chance to start. He darted towards the right hand guard, who stood a little forwards of his comrade, and stayed on his right so as to effectively block his friend with his target's own body. The other guard was too slow to seem to understand Lien's tactic and therefore was given no chance to save his comrade as the guard swung towards the Commander. Lien parried his blow and rolled beneath it, turning with his own momentum to deliver a fierce kick to the guards face, breaking his nose and sending him crashing into the table in the centre of the room, laden with meat, bread and fruits which scattered over the floor with the impact.

The second guard, who had seemed a little clueless, roared out a challenge and came to face Lien as his comrade stumbled to his feet, clutching at his broken, bleeding face. Lien stared at him as a wolf does its prey, cold, deadly, without feeling. The man seemed shaken but, give him his due, he put up a fair fight. Lien was disappointed that his feints and parries did not seem to get past the guard's defences. Soon the other guard was back in play and Lien grew impatient.

I don't have time for this he thought savagely. I have to get out of here!

Only then did an opportunity present itself. The man he had been originally fighting became presumptuous. Perhaps it was his injury that fueled his anger, whatever his reasoning it cost him his life, as well as that of his friend. He lunged forwards just as his comrade did, clashing their swords together while Lien spun out of harm's way. In a split second he positioned himself to the right of one man, once more blocking his friend with his own body, reached out to grab and twist the man's straight arm before bringing the hilt of his heavy dagger down on his elbow and listen to his arm snap. The man screamed in pain and dropped his sword, stumbling away into the wall.

His comrade looked to him for a split second, enough time for Lien to grab a silver platter on the table to his right, lunge forward and use it as a shield to parry the blow. The man pulled back for another swing but Lien pushed forwards with all his might and smashed the platter into the guard's face, stunning him and throwing him off balance, allowing Lien time to leap forwards and slide his dagger up into the weak point in his armour just beneath the ribs. The man yelled and struggled but Lien simply shoved the dagger in further, watching as the light from the man's eyes slipped away. He dropped to the ground dead.

The other was still whimpering and yelling on the floor, cradling his arm. Cousland put him out of his misery, hoping to all hell that no one had heard them. No point in testing my theory he thought. He slipped the gory dagger into his belt and rushed through into the kitchen, which was oddly empty. Lien did not think on it. Instead he rushed towards the secret passage and pushed the block which released the catch.

The wall slid open with a cavernous sigh and he was gone.

* * *

The single guard at the stables was easily dispatched but the stable boy fled in terror. Lien did not have the time to run after him, or the inclination to kill a young boy such as him. Thought of the boy made his mind leap to Harold. All he could hope, as he grabbed his own horse, which Fergus's men must have discovered near to their camp, was that the boy was alright. He had no time to spare for him. Not now.

Everything passed in a blur. It had been night during his escape, but day slowly dawned as he galloped along the highway. Things were eerily quiet and he came across few people. He could not think or speculate, only see his goal. He calculated the quickest route and, against his better nature, decided to cut into the Bannorn to save time. The terrain was flat and moor-like, well suited to horse riding as long as one avoided the more boggy, treacherous areas.

The goal, he thought, focus. He saw the sky above him and the ground spinning past below him. The horse's hooves created a heartbeat as the animal grunted and panted, head down as it galloped at its master's will.

He rejoined the path. He passed a few wagons. A man on horseback with a small girl before him. The girl's eyes seemed to follow him as he galloped by.

I will not be too late. I will reach Denerim.

I have to.

The sun travelled across the sky like a sundial ticking away time. Lien kicked the horse's flank and ground his teeth determinedly. He passed farms and small holdings, the people there looking up to watch him pass curiously. He found no sign of any army, of any troops.

How long was I in that room, how long has it been since Fergus left? He tortured himself with the questions.

The sun grew lower. Lien was forced by fatigue and darkness to halt his journey. He pulled his horse into the wood and, in a tiny clearing, curled up next to the animal and slept fitfully.

He awoke with the dawn sun. The cold air had caused his limbs to freeze up and it took precious time to get both himself and his horse in working order. The daylight was almost painful to look at. He found a small stream as they headed back to the road but the water was mainly frozen. Lien wondered how he had survived the night but did not dwell on it. He would not question his luck until it ran out.

Day drew on into afternoon, the road continued to fly past. Alistair's face sometimes flashed unbidden into his mind. Lien banished it as quickly as he could. The thought wasn't just painful it was sickening. Nothing would be thought of until everyone was safe. It was the only way he could survive it. He ignored his aching stomach and urged the horse faster.

As the shadows grew longer on the second day he knew that his horse wouldn't make it.

"Come on you sack of shit!" Lien cursed unfairly as the horse let out pained whinnies and slowed the fast paced canter it had fallen to into a slow walk, "Come on, you have to keep going!"

When the horse fell Lien was lucky he didn't lose his leg beneath it. He hit the ground hard, rolling into the long shadows of the trees in the evening sun. Everything hurt, but the fall only drove home how much that was true. His body ached with fatigue and hunger. He felt weak and lightheaded. He could not blame the horse, not truly. He had already ridden the poor creature full pelt all the way to Orzammar, then back towards Amarathine. Now he had pushed it past its limit once more. Lien pushed himself to his feet, wobbling a little, and stumbled over to the animal as it lay in the chill dust, breathing lungfuls of milky air out into the waning evening. Lien sat beside it, his head hung in defeat. He reached out with a shaking hand and ran his palm along the horses damp skin, feeling the quivering tension beneath his palm.

"I'm sorry," he said, hearing his breath hitch and not sure, in his exhaustion, who he was apologising to, "Maker I'm so sorry."

He pulled the dagger from his belt. It shone dully in the pale, winter light, the blood still encrusted on its surface. He leaned down, placing his torso against the horse's neck, stroking the mare's side. He could feel the life within its skin, quivering beneath the pain. He could feel the tears in his eyes as the knife silenced it.

This can't be the end. I won't let it be. The cold air around him seemed to pin him to the ground. The horse's dead eyes stared straight forwards into the approaching night.

Get up, he said to himself. Get up! he shouted. Is this where you will let it end, is this where you will give up? Is this all the effort you will put into saving him? He needs you, he might die, get up! Get up Cousland!

It was the sound of hoof beats and grinding wheels that finally forced him to stand. The sun was low enough to have dropped behind the far mountains now. No, Cousland realised with a leap of his heart in his chest, dear Maker that's Dragon's Peak! I'm closer than I thought, so fucking close! He looked down to see the wagon roll into view, an old man riding in the driver's seat. Lien was not sure how he found the strength but he ran.

"Hey, stop! I need help!"

The man stopped, pulling his twin horses up short with the reigns, but quickly wished that he hadn't. He found himself looking down at a haggard, desperate looking man wielding a blood stained dagger.

"I need one of your horses, now," Cousland said succinctly, amazed at the gruffness and lethargy in his own voice.

"I-I...just wait a damn minute there!" the old man tried to argue, the fear in his face evident.

"I have no time to argue, just give me a damn horse or I'll make you wish you were dead!" he yelled.

"Alright stranger, just hold on..." the man flicked his eyes towards the road and made to raise his reigns, acting to whip his horses into a run, but Lien was too quick for him; he leapt forwards and, with a wide swipe of his dagger, cut through the reigns holding the horses.

The old man let out a cry and the horses fidgeted unhappily. Lien did not care. All he could see was Denerim. All he could see was Alistair. All he could see was his own weary arms forcing the heavy trapping off of one of the confused horses while it danced back and forth, snorting and whinnying. Cousland pulled the horse around by the bridle until it was facing the right direction and then used the stationary wagon to give himself a boost up onto the horse's bare back. Without another word he grabbed onto what was left of the trappings around the horses head and kicked at the stallion's flank. The horse was obviously not used to such harsh treatment but Cousland had no time to pander to its whims. He held on as the horse reared, desperate not to fall, and heard the old man shouting something he couldn't hear. Then suddenly all four hooves were on the ground and they were flying.

The blur was more disturbing as night fell. Cousland began to become unsure of where he was. How long had he been out here? How long since Fergus left. How long until Denerim? The road became obscured and the darkness started to become absolute. Fuck, _fuck_ , Cousland thought. What am I doing? He slowed the horse to a walk and tried to look at the vague landscape by the glittering of the almost nonexistent light from the half moon. The stars were arrayed above him in a panoply of magnificence. The stars, he thought numbly, I...I have been heading east, straight east. The sun set behind me. He looked to the stars once more, trying to distinguish any constellations he might recognise in the jumbled mess of light.

There, I think, he thought blearily. That might be the Evenstar. Then, if I keep heading towards it I should find something. Maker let this work, I have no more hope left. Please, have fucking mercy. Lien curled his fingers into the horse's mane and kicked the beast forwards into a trot, then a canter, and hoped beyond hope that something would happen. He headed around the dark mass of the forest which sat to his right, trying to put himself in line with the star. After another half an hour he caught his first glimpse of hope. A glow above the trees, a _light_. Lien would have wept with joy if he'd had the energy. Instead he pushed uphill, the horse labouring with the incline. Lien forced it as fast as he could.

As they broached the summit, the lights to guide him presented themselves. Only, it was not what he had wanted to see.

Denerim sat, half hidden by the trees, and the road before it was lined with fire. Tall, burning piles, of what he could not tell. It was only as he rode past them, forcing his horse into a gallop straight for the gates, that the smell assaulted him. The wind had been at his back, keeping the awful stench away from him. Now he smelled it; the smell of roasting, dead flesh. Cousland gagged and did not look too closely at the pyres as they rode by.

What is this? He thought hollowly. The darkness that spread out around him, on the plains that surrounded the road, were obscured by pitch blackness, only the road lit by the grim pyres. He felt as if he were riding some deathly causeway suspended above an abyss. Despite his wish not to look his morbid fascination drew his eyes to the dead lying within the flames. The royal crest of Denerim was clear on those who had fallen from the funeral pyres, half burned emblems upon corpses whose eyes stared up at the stars.

He felt hollow. The horse raced across the dirt of the road. The cold did not seem to affect him. He did not take any notice as the tents began to spring up around him, as he rode into enemy territory without realising. The horse seemed to move on its own, Cousland simply sat atop it. It weaved in and out of the tents, between pits dug for latrines, heading, as if instinctively, towards the brightly lit gates and an odd structure which was becoming more and more apparent as they drew closer.

It was only a matter of time before a guardsman spotted them. The noise they made, loud hoof beats across the devastated, grassy ground, was unmistakable. Yet even as the first man rose the alarm and called out for Cousland to stop, the Commander paid him no heed. The men of the camp were mainly sleeping and the few who opposed him were in no state to catch up to the galloping horse that carried him.

His eyes were fixed upon the gate as it loomed closer, surrounded by tall fire brands.

There were guards at the gate. There were four or five. They rushed forwards as Lien Cousland drew to a stop, pulling his wild horse under control, circling the beast a few times just to stop it from trying to rush forwards. He did not notice any of this. His eyes were trained to the structure before him, lit by the torches, showing its shoddy and hurried construction.

"Hey! What do you think you're doing?" a guard called, rushing in to take hold of the horse by the bridle, "you can't just come riding in here."

The others were around him now, keeping the horse calm even as they eyed Lien with suspicion. Still the Commander did not take any notice of them. All he could see were the wooden steps leading up to the platform, the long wooden floor and the high arch-like construction atop it. The lights lit the three people there.

"Come on down from there, come on," the first guard was saying.

Lien didn't hear him. He could feel his mouth moving but no sound came out. The world seemed to grow smaller and darker as his vision narrowed, allowing nothing to enter his mind but the face of the person he saw there.

"I think he's gonna fall Captain!" another voice said.

He fell from the horse, not because of his sheer exhaustion or starvation but more because of his inability to comprehend what he saw. He felt himself caught as he slipped. A somewhat kindly voice speaking to him as he was lowered to the ground.

"Whoa, it's alright, I've got you now," the guard Captain was saying, turning to his subordinates; Lien felt a hand at his side, "here, take this dagger will you Thomas, and go get the healer and tell her we've got someone who needs looking at. You two help me take him inside. Lucas, let the General know we have a guest."

The words washed over him. Cousland stared up at the stars beyond the Captain who cradled him. Yet the image seemed still to be there, burned upon his eyes. The three men swinging there, from the snake-like ropes around their necks. Lien felt his lips moving but he couldn't understand what he was trying to say.

Alistair's bloated face, his limp body swaying in the slight wind, lit grotesquely by the torches, blazoned itself onto his waking vision just as it would haunt his sleep for years to come.


	7. In Memoriam

( _The present_ )

The light had dimmed to darkness and Cousland could be found sitting on the floor with his back to the cold stone of the Rookery in Vigil's Keep by the time the bird finally arrived. The Commander raised his head to stare at the large opening in the wall. Meris's peregrine falcon sat primly upon the stone sill, backlit by the waxing moon in the cloudless sky. It shifted its head sharply back and forth, dark eyes seeming to survey him.

Cousland stood slowly, watching the bird ruffle its feathers and quickly nip down to preen its wings while it waited. The Commander arched his back and felt the muscles pop and the bones cracking in his spine. He shuffled to the elegant bird and reached down to fumble with the message tied to its leg. The falcon barely stirred.

It was too dark to read the bold script imprinted on the long roll of parchment. Cousland descended the tower and headed back to the main hall. His troops saluted him sharply in the hallways as they passed, quick footed as they rushed to prepare. Cousland passed them by, hearing the buzz of activity all around him, as if the Keep was a hive of bees. On entering the main hall it was as if he had walked into the queen's chamber.

Warden's buzzed in and out of the five doors that led to the main hall, some bringing packs, some taking them away. The vast floor space was covered with equipment; food supplies, water canteens, tents to be rolled up and packed away, heavy weaponry, light weaponry, bows, arrows, quivers, boots, pauldrons, armour...above it all stood three familiar faces. Andrew was instructing the small group of newly initiated Warden's on their duties, each of their young faces alternately plastered with fear, anxiety, delight and anticipation.

Then there was Hannir, quickly and expertly checking over the weapons at his feet; he was constantly followed by at least three other Wardens who, when Hannir nodded, would take the approved weapons and begin packing them. Weapons not up to scratch were placed in a pile at the side of the hall to await a second inspection should they find themselves short.

The last was a man who looked rather out of place in amongst a crowd of humming activity. Meris looked a little uneasy but hid it well beneath his usual apathetically curious gaze. Although Cousland could see that he was still a little fatigued from the long ride. Meris was giving vague instructions to the Grey Mages while he read a list of items off of a long scroll of parchment. Between Meris and the mages lay an array of brightly coloured vials and scrolls, light armour glittering with magical energy and bright enchanted runes. Despite Meris's rather off-putting appearance and abrupt manner, his pupils seemed somewhat enthralled.

Cousland looked to his left and found the only section of the hall not infested with people. The War Map, splayed out on a long table, lay bare, held down at the corners by three heavy, pewter tankards and one dagger. Cousland approached it slowly, feeling the unread note between his fingers, sliding it back and forth against his skin. He looked down onto the map and saw the world as they knew it stretching before him. The map was pinpricked with marks from previous campaigns, stretching back into Warden history. The large holes at Ostagar were particularly prominent, as were some older, more frayed holes in the Anderfels. The set of heavy pins used for marking strategies sat in a rough wooden box to his right. Cousland stared at them before looking back up at the Hall before him.

He took out the note and placed it upon the map, blindly rolling it out and holding it flat with his fingertips. Then he lowered his head and began to read.

* * *

( _three days earlier_ )

He did not sleep as much as he fell in and out of consciousness. He was barely aware of being carried, pathetic and weak, into the castle. He heard voices passing him by in waves, rising and falling. The light grew bright with every torch sconce and dimmed as they passed. Heavy hands held him as if he were nothing but a child.

He felt himself lowered onto something soft but with something hard beneath. Water was poured into his mouth, gently, but still he choked upon it. Someone lifted his head and tried again. He swallowed as best he could, both grateful and confused. Everything was dim and yet full with muted noise, touches upon his body.

" _Is it that easy to see right through me? Ah, I guess I shouldn't be surprised."_

The suddenness of the voice, so clear to his muffled ears, was jarring. As was the speaker, their tone alight with subdued humour and a hint of flirtatiousness.

"Alistair," he mumbled out, his lips dry and cracked.

Someone touched his face and he could feel wetness cooling against his skin.

" _You've had none of the good experience of being a grey Warden since your Joining, not a word of thanks or congratulations. It's all been death and fighting and tragedy._ "

The voice was so clear and crisp. Lien blinked his bleary eyes and tried to move. Alistair was here somewhere, he was talking to him, he could _hear it._ Hands held him down and he tried vainly to struggle, mumbling out half formed words. He thought he could smell the vague scent of the rose, feel the thick stem between his fingers, feel the budding affection along with the humour that he had felt when Alistair, a little red faced, had handed it to him.

" _I thought maybe I could say something. Tell you what a rare and wonderfull thing you are to find amidst all this...darkness_."

It had seemed so very clichéd at the time, so hackneyed. Now it only made his chest ache, his heart beat faster and his world seem to faze back into focus. The light grew slightly brighter and the air grew cooler. The faces before him became sharper and the voices more recognisable.

Somehow, no matter how unrealistic, he had expected to blink his eyes and find Alistair there, a rather shy, cheeky smile on his face as he shuffled his feet and laughed awkwardly. Just as he had done that day. Lien had told him that he felt the same way, and Alistair's reply had been enough to have him rolling on the ground with laughter..." _I'm glad you like it. Now...if we could move right on past this awkward, embarrassing stage and get right to the steamy bits, I'd appreciate it._ "

"No," lien said, his voice dry and rough, "No! Let go of me!"

"Commander, please calm down," a familiar voice said calmly although, at the time, Cousland did not have the ability to understand or the want to care.

"I have to stop this!" he cried out, pushing at the hands which held him down, "I have to cut him down, someone help me!"

"Commander please, do not shout."

The face came into clear focus, the voice finally seemed to sink beneath the psychosis building in his mind. Meris stared down at him, his black eyes unreadable.

"Please..." he whispered, "please...what is happening?"

"I will tell you everything," Meris said evenly, "but you must drink this first."

It turned out that it was not water he had been fed by Meris. It was in fact the potion that Meris had been preparing before Cousland left. Its effects were incredible and almost instantaneous, although short lived. The incredible fatigue and hysteria that had been building in his body, threatening to overwhelm him, dissipated slowly as Meris continued to feed him sips of the tasteless potion.

He finally took stock of his situation. They were in the throne room, the extensive hall in Denerim castle, and the room was filled with people all acting as if the small group of Warden's in the corner were not there. Guards of the Bannorn, with their bright platemail and the bright yellow dragon emblazoned upon their armour, moved around the hall like golems. Nobles, in fine dress and pensive faces, stood in the hall and above in the gallery, watching the proceedings. As Lien watched them Cousland felt his newly awakened body grow numb. His heart beat but the pain it caused was hard to ignore.

Alistair.

"What are you doing here? All of you?" Cousland asked, not entirely hearing the heavy tread of boots approaching them.

"They are here because I called them here," a loud voice interjected before Meris could reply; Cousland looked up into the heavily bearded face of Lord Haygen, his red bushy hair obscuring his ruddy, pock marked cheeks, his massive bulk filling out his overly ornate armour. He was flanked by a set of two guards, both with their hands hovering around their weapons.

The sight did not deter Cousland from forcing himself to stand, his Wardens, who had been crouched around him, standing with him. He knew that the look in his eyes was murderous simply because he felt Meris's hand upon his arm, a precaution on the mage's part.

"I can't say that I don't understand your anger, young Lord," Haygen said, his eyes narrowed, "but I must say that I will not hesitate to strike you down should you act upon it. It should be enough that I show you mercy at all."

"Oh...I am so very thankful," Cousland smiled viciously, making Haygen frown, "you piece of..."

"Lord Haygen lured us here," Meris interrupted, squeezing Cousland's arm tightly; the Commander bit his tongue so hard he could taste blood, "in a hopes to trap you."

"Seems that I sent the message too late," Haygen said, somewhat humorously; Cousland's mind swam as he observed the slight smile on Haygen's face. He saw red and tried to start forwards but Meris's grip was surprisingly strong, or perhaps desperate, "you had already left the Keep by the time I sent the summons for the Commander of the grey. I had hoped to bring you here so as to secure the fact that we would not have to deal with any attack by the Warden's on the King's behalf. It was lucky for me that you were otherwise engaged when we sprung our trap."

"I'm sorry Commander," Cousland turned to look at Hannir as the man spoke, his face showing the man's own grief; he had left the older Warden in charge while he was gone.

"Do not apologise, my friend," Cousland said, shaking his head, "you were not to know. I do not blame _you_. How long has he kept you here?"

"A week, Commander," Hannir replied.

' _The troops have already left. It's too late to stop this now_ '. Fergus's words came back to him. At the time he hadn't realised their significance. Cousland's stomach flipped over. How long had they been here? How long had they been destroying everything that he held dear while he had been at Orzammar, cut off from the world?

"When did they..?" Cousland's throat closed up even as he tried to say the words; " _I love you, my...love. Oops, that sounded a little idiotic, ummm, let me think of something else_..." the pitch clear memory of Alistair's voice swam through his mind, sounding tantalisingly as if it came from just over his shoulder. He tried again, "When was he..?"

"Three days ago," Meris said, obviously understanding the Commander's open ended questions.

Three days ago. Three days. Cousland closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

Three days. Everything seemed too calm for this to be the truth. The King was...the King...Alistair...

"I want his body cut down," Cousland had never heard his voice so cold as he opened his eyes and stared at Haygen, "I will be taking him with me."

"I don't have to answer to your..." Haygen started, only to stop when Cousland jerked forwards intimidatingly.

"Give him to me you bloated waste of flesh," Cousland growled under his breath, just loud enough for the two of them to hear; some heads were turned towards them but the stares were worried more than concerned. The guards at Haygen's side seemed stalwart but undecided. Cousland continued, "or do you wish to be forced to kill me? A war with the Grey Wardens does not sound wise, does it? Would you sign your own death warrant over a corpse, fool?"

The insults clearly bristled Haygen but the man was far too full of his own self worth and preservation to risk anything. Cousland knew that. He banked upon it.

"It is of no consequence to me what becomes of their bodies," Haygen said pompously, making Cousland itch to see his fingers around the man's throat; patience, he thought to himself, patience.

"Then I will take all three and make sure that they have a proper funeral," Cousland said as levelly as he could, "we are leaving and I recommend that you do not stop us. I need a wagon and three horses for my men, supplies and our weapons returned..."

It was unfortunate timing, in as much as Cousland found it hard to be intimidating when the effects of the potion were starting to wane. Then Cousland saw _him_ walk into the main hall, his eyes scanning the people, and their eyes locked. Neither moved. Lien stared at the crest of his father and his family upon the armour of his older brother and thought it a mockery.

"We're leaving," he said blankly, even as his feet moved him unconsciously towards his brother, "Hannir, get your men in order."

"Yes, Commander," Hannir's voice reached his ears but Cousland did not entirely hear them, his feet grew faster even as his strength weakened; Fergus has stepped towards him, his face drawn and pale, but as Lien grew closer he took an involuntary step backwards.

Lien had his hands tight around Fergus's armour and slammed the man up against the wall with all the force he could muster, causing the people near him to yell in surprise and fear and back away. The guards seemed momentarily stunned and therefore took a few seconds longer to act than normal. Just enough time for Lien to lean in and whisper into Fergus's ear, "the only reason you're not dead is because I promised your wife I wouldn't hurt you."

Then there were hands around his shoulders, pulling him from the stunned Teyrn. Fergus's eyes followed him as Lien was pulled away towards the door, the guards finally shaken from him as his fellow Warden's rushed to his aid.

"I cannot say the same of your accomplices!" Cousland shouted, making Haygen frown and the other Lords and Ladies watch him, wide eyed.

Meris pulled Cousland with them decisively. They walked warily from the hall, watching for any sign of a trap or aggression. The mage kept him steady, while Hannir led them purposefully towards the exit. Only Cousland did not deviate his gaze. He stared at the grief stained face of his brother until he was lost from sight.

* * *

The journey home was long and silent.

They reached the main gate with no resistance and Cousland ordered the bodies cut down. It was only as they were laid on the ground that he found the courage to look at the other two dead men. Teagan's face was distorted and pale, lips a heady purple as if he had simply been drinking too much wine. Arl Eamon was missing both his eyes, pecked out by carrion birds.

He could not bring himself to look at the third body. The wagon was brought in due time and Cousland ordered something to wrap the bodies in. Hannir and his men gathered a nearby flag, somehow respectfully flying at half mast. The Denerim crest, twin lions rampant, seemed fitting to cover the closed eyes of its king and his most loyal friends. Lien wondered at his inability to feel. Where are my tears? he thought. Where is the anger now?

"I must send an urgent message to the First Warden," Cousland said, as if running purely on instinct, "there are things he needs to know."

"Already done, Commander," Meris said peremptorily, "your brother permitted me to send Fariah."

"You brought your falcon?" Cousland asked, using this curiosity as a diversion from the morbid scene.

"I didn't trust anyone else to take care of her," Meris shrugged, "Hannir wrote the letter but it was fairly comprehensive. I'm quite sure Fariah will be at the keep when we return."

It was still dark, pitch black in fact, but that did not stop the Wardens. Torches were given to them and Meris conjured what seemed like a large blanket of light to cover the wagon and the surrounding horses. The troops still in their tents surrounding the entrance to the city had come out to watch. Cousland was confused by their reverence. He had expected jeering, he had expected anger and hatred. He had no expected the grim stares and bowed heads as the fallen King was loaded into the sturdy wagon.

Cousland wanted to shout at them, he wanted to scream until his voice was lost. He wanted to show them what their loyalty had brought them...but he could not summon the strength, or the anger. Everything had become cold once more. Avoiding the carefully wrapped bodies, Cousland sat in the driver's seat of the wagon, Meris at his side. The mage gave him some more of the potion and they departed without a word. Hannir led the party on a fine white horse which seemed to glow beneath Meris's magic light. No one spoke, beyond giving orders or inquiring as to the best route home.

He did not ask it, but about an hour into their journey Meris began to tell him how Denerim had fallen.

"When we arrived we were invited into the castle," Meris started softly; Cousland wanted him to stop but couldn't bring himself to tell him so, "once Haygen saw you weren't there he had us taken prisoner. He was rather put out, I think. The invasion had not started at that point, but the King had been captured. Haygen had men loyal to him within the Denerim guard. It was done rather discreetly, I understand. Once the City was fairly secured, that was when the troops came in. They set up a siege outside the walls while their infiltrators took out the army from the inside and opened the gates for the attacking forces. None of them stood a chance."

The darkness wavered, one of the small balls of light that made up the blanket swishing down to hover before Meris in an almost playful manner. The mage waved it away in annoyance. Cousland kept his eyes upon the road before him and said nothing.

"They...asked the king to abdicate," Meris said hesitantly, perhaps noting Cousland's hands tightening involuntarily upon the reigns, "but he would not. He was a strong man, and proud. Even when they tortured him he would not..."

"Enough!" Cousland barked, only then hearing his own ragged breathing; Meris looked at him with sympathy and nodded. When Cousland spoke again his voice was barely audible, "enough Meris."

It was two days until they reached Vigil's Keep. Meris's potion lasted only long enough to get them home, although Cousland took the time during their journey to sleep as much as he could. He would need his strength. Yet his sleep was interrupted and broken, constantly jolted awake from wrenching nightmares; Alistair's hollow face staring at him, his eyes gone even as his mouth moved, "Why didn't you come for me?" it asked grotesquely. Lien tried to keep his distress to himself but it was difficult. The growing smell of the dead from the wagon was a constant reminder of his failure.

It would be an understatement to say that they were given a comprehensive welcome. The Warden's at the gate were so overjoyed to see their Commander safe and well that they did not stand on protocol. It took Hannir's authoritative voice and scary demeanour to have the Warden's not swarm the man as he was brought into the Keep.

The first words out of Cousland's mouth when Andrew rushed from the main doors of the Keep, his face alight with joy, were, "prepare a funeral pyre". It did not take long for the news to spread and the joy to dim. The wagon they had brought was a herald of death. The king of Ferelden was dead.

He would not lie and say that he handled anything well. Cousland could easily have said that it was he who ordered the troops to begin preparing for a full deployment, just in case the First Warden asked them to move at a moment's notice. He could have said that it was he who organised the impromptu funeral, the large pyre just outside the walls, atop which sat the three honoured dead. He could have said that it was he who read the prayer to the Maker, or he who lit the twigs with the crackling torch. Yet he could not lie. He could not do much. All he could do was stand with his fellow Wardens and watch the flames devour everything they touched.

"He did not want it this way," Meris's voice was unexpected and low at his side; Cousland looked to him lethargically, watching the flames dance in his black eyes, "your brother, that is."

"What?" Cousland asked, frowning.

"He did not want the King dead," Meris clarified, while Hannah read the Chant, "he begged for his life, in fact. It was Haygen and the other Lords who executed them. Said there was no way to free Ferelden while its traitors still lived. I...just thought you should know."

Cousland did not know what to do with that information. He nodded without thinking, his head filled with the turmoil of memory and duty and pain and vengeance. He found it difficult to believe his brother would do such a thing, even as a small part of him wished beyond hope that it were true. As the people dispersed, back into the hall to prepare a feast in honour of the dead, Cousland stayed. He stayed until it was only he who stood beside the burning pyre. He stayed until the sky grew dark and only the embers were left, glowing gold and crimson in the wind. He stayed until he found himself on his knees, weeping as if he could not stop, his eyes burning from the salty water and the smoke, his throat raw from his own cries, his chest aching as he clawed at the place where his heart beat, pumping the agony through his system like a poison. He rocked back and forth, his arms wound tightly around his middle, and as the night darkened and the heat from the pyre lessened, he lay himself open for no one but the stars to see as he let his grief consume him.

* * *

( _present day_ )

The letter was not what he had wanted to see. The words were wrong, even though he had expected them. Cousland cleared his throat and sniffed derisively, feeling an angry stab of pain in his chest which he forced himself to ignore. He looked up to the bustling hall, placed his ring and index fingers into his mouth and whistled as loud as he could. The sound was effective and immediate. The men and women there stopped what they were doing and looked to their Commander, standing at the head of the hall, his face solemn.

"Wardens, we have our orders," Cousland said, hating the bitter taste in his mouth as he relayed exactly what the note had to say, "as you are all now aware, there is a new threat to our land, a new threat wearing the face of an old enemy. The Darkspawn seem to think themselves clever enough to slaughter innocents once more, well, I say that their new plan reeks of old tradition. A tradition which does not match our own, the tradition of the Grey Wardens who have sworn their lives to protect this world from their evil!"

There was a chorus of cries, as enthusiastic as they were determined. Cousland stared at the men and women he called family and steeled himself. They stared back keenly, seeming to hang upon his every word.

"Some of you have never even seen this enemy," he said, "some of you fought and killed them in the Blight, some of you fought and killed them in the battle for Amaranthine. It matters not. What matters is that _all_ of you love your land, all of you have homes and loved ones you want to protect. You will all fight for that, not just simply _because_ you are a Grey Warden, but for the _reason_ you became a Grey Warden! To protect the lives of those who cannot protect themselves!"

The cries were louder this time, the faces eager and resolute. They stared at him as if he were a King himself, as if they were marching to war. An apt metaphor, considering the circumstances. Cousland looked at them all, slowly gathering the memory of their faces and storing it away.

"The First Warden has commanded that we, and the other Wardens of Ferelden, are to create a decisive counter strike against these so called intelligent Darkspawn," Cousland said determinedly, "we are to enter the Deep Roads at calculated points with large strike teams and ferret out the source of this devilry, and we are to _destroy_ it. I want everyone ready to leave by dawn tomorrow morning, all equipment packed, horses ready, supplies stored and double checked, everything perfect. This is not the training field any longer, my friends, this is the real thing. We have a war to fight and no one else is going to fight it for us," Cousland looked at his troops as he crushed the note in his closed fist, raising it as he shouted, "in peace!"

"Vigilance!" came the loud chorus of voices.

"In war!" he cried.

"Victory!" the called back.

"In death!" he cried.

"Sacrifice!" they called.

"Everyone, carry on," he said, his voice slightly hoarse, "I will debrief you all tomorrow and everyone will be informed of the mission. Dismissed."

At his word, the hive swarmed back to its duties. Cousland watched as Hannir and Andrew approached him, when he signalled them, and joined him at the map. Meris, not paying any attention, had to be called upon. They planned, late into the night, moving strategy against strategy, playing off of each other's strengths and weaknesses.

Yet with every thought the fiery nest of hatred and fury burned in the pit of Cousland's stomach. The First Warden's note, after having been informed of the king's death, expressly forbade Cousland or any of the Ferelden Wardens from seeking vengeance. Nothing, not a single sword or bad word was to be raised in retribution for a monarch slain. Cousland did not believe that the Warden's law of not becoming involved in political situations would spread so far as to cover the death of the country's ruler.

The death of a friend.

The death of a loved one.

No, Cousland thought as he pointed to Orzammar and surmised his plan for defences, no it will not be so. There, on his hand, shone the ring Alistair had given him after the Blight was over and, for a blissful few days, they had travelled back to Denerim for the coronation. Now, beside it, on his middle finger, sat the heavy, gold signet ring of the house of Theirin which Cousland had grimly taken from Alistair's dead hand before the body was washed in scented water for the funeral pyre. He had been lucky that Haygen and the other Lords obviously overlooked the prized heirloom just so as to be able to display their ghoulish victory at the city gates.

They were now all that he had left of the man who once told him that he loved him and would do so for the rest of his life.

My love will not be stripped from me, he thought darkly, no matter what there will not be man nor woman nor Darkspawn who can stop me.

I will avenge you.

**_THE END_ **


End file.
